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VOLUME    XXI  NOVEMBER-DECEMBER,     I9IO  NUMBER  VI 

THE  CLOUDS* 

(J  play  in  three  acts) 

By  Jaroslav  Kvapil 

Translated  from  the  Bohemian  by  Charles  Recht* 

THE  CAST 

Pater  Ian  Matoush,  a  village  priest. 

Maya  Zemanova,  an  actress. 

Petr  Kocian,  a  theological  student. 

Maria  Kocianova,  his  mother,  the  priest's  sister. 

Dr.  Votava,  a  physician. 

Scene:  A  small  Bohemian  parsonage  near  the  mountains. 

ACT  I 

Courtyard  of  a  country  parsonage.     Summer  afternoon. 

Matoush  {entering  from  the  outside  with  his  sister). —  Well,  God 
willing,  by  to-morrow  night  this  year's  harvest  will  be  all  gathered. 
To-morrow  we'll  get  that  piece  we  have  on  Zablati  finished  up,  and 
then  we'll  thresh  it  all  together.  But  don't  you  work  so  hard, 
Marianka.  To-day  it  was  awfully  hot,  and  you,  poor  thing,  had  to 
work  twice  as  hard.     Petr  home.? 

*Copyright,  1911,  by  Charles  Recht.    All  Rights  Reserved. 
Copyright,  1911,  by  The  Poet  Lore  Company.     All  Rights  Reserved. 

417 


11 


^J^ii-*iyi^!>"*ji..!AO  ^^^  clouds 

Kocianova. —  No.  Soon  after  dinner  he  took  a  book  and  went 
somewhere  around  Zalachi. 

Matoush. —  My  old  feet  don't  serve  me  as  well  as  they  used  to. 
I  went  around  to  Zablati  and  it  took  me  a  good  hour  to  get  home. 
And  I  am  tired.  In  other  days  I  would  go  with  the  last  sacrament  a 
good  many  miles  and  would  come  home  as  fresh  as  when  I  started, 
but  now  even  such  a  short  walk  wearies  me.  We  are  getting  old, 
Marianka;   we  are  getting  old.     And  we  stand  here  all  alone. 

Kocianova. —  May  the  Almighty  at  least  reward  us  with  Petr. 
May  He  give  him  His  mercy  and  blessing  so  he  can  serve  his  first 
mass  next  year. 

Matoush  (smiling). —  And  afterwards  that  he  should  go  a-f arming 
on  some  godforsaken  country  parsonage.  Is  that  it.?  {Sits  down 
on  the  bench.) 

Kocianova. —  God's  will  be  done.  Our  old  father  farmed,  my 
old  man  farmed, —  and  both  were  content. 

Matoush. —  Listen  Marianka  —  come,  stop  a  moment  —  come 
sit  down  here  beside  me.  Listen,  are  you  not  at  least  once  in  a  while 
a  bit  sorry  that  Petr  is  not  going  to  be  something  greater,  something 
more  important  than  his  uncle.''  And  you  know  well  that  he  could 
have  been. 

Kocianova. —  But  I  have  promised  him  to  the  Lord.  And  He 
knows  the  covenant  I  made  with  Him  when  the  boy  was  on  his 
deathbed,  and  that's  why  He  saved  him. 

Matoush. —  And  do  you  think  that  is  the  only  reason  why  He 
saved  him? 

Kocianova. —  For  that  and  everything.  But  it  was  His  will 
that  Petr  should  be  what  you  are. 

Matoush. —  What  I  am!  Ah!  my  golden  soul,  at  our  age  one 
can  regret  many  things  and  yearn  for  things  which  are  not.  I  go 
through  fields,  I  meet  the  peasants  and  laborers,  and  I  often  ask  of 
myself,  "For  this  did  I  study  many  long  years,  for  this  did  my 
brothers  and  sisters  sacrifice  themselves,  for  this  did  I  remain  single, 
that  at  the  end  of  ends  I  should  be  the  same  as  you  are,  but  without 
your  happiness  and  your  hope.?"  What  I  am!  A  peasant, a  strange 
acre,  which  to-day  is  mine  and  to-morrow  is — God  knows  whose. 
A  decaying  recluse  who  never  knew  the  world  and  who  doesn't  leave 
anything  to  the  world. 

Kocianova. —  Don't  lament,  Jenichek!     You  brought  up  Petr. 

Matoush. —  No,     I  didn't.     He  would  have  finished  his  studies 


JAROSLAV   KVAPIL  419 

without  me,  and  without  me  he  would  have  been  what  you  would  have 
"covenanted"  him  to  be.  Marianka,  God  is  also  in  other  places 
besides  the  church.  And  when  I  see  Petr  and  his  habitual  silence, 
his  compressed  lips,  it  is  to  me  as  if  I  saw  our  poor  dead  father  again, 
at  that  time  when  I  told  him  I  would  go  to  the  seminary  if  we  didn't 
have  enough  money  for  the  university  {waving  his  hand).  Well,  I 
went  gladly.  I  offered  myself  as  a  sacrifice,  and  went  of  my  own  will, 
Marianka,  of  my  own  accord. 

Kocianova. —  And  Petr  also 

Matoush. —  Petr,  my  dear,  has  been  sacrificed  by  you,  or  rather 
let  us  say,  we  have  sacrificed  him.  He  could  have  studied,  I  could 
have  afforded  it.     {Silence.) 

Kocianova. —  It  was  God's  will. 

Matoush. —  It  was  your  wish,  Marianka,  it  was  the  wish  of  your 
religion  {smoothing  her  hair  lightly).  You  have  a  good  son,  sister. 
May  God  preserve  him,  and  the  Lord's  will  be  done.  {Rising.) 
Won't  you  give  me  my  lunch.'' 

Kocianova.  {rising) . —  See,  we  were  talking  till  I  forgot.  {Seeing 
Petr  coming.)     And  there  is  Petr  coming;   you  can  eat  together. 

Petr  {entering  from  the  outside). —  His  name  be  praised! 

Matoush. —  Unto  all  eternity! 

Kocianova. —  From  ages  to  ages ! 

Matoush. —  You  are  hurrying  home,  too,  aren't  you.?  Such  heat 
tires  me. 

Petr. —  In  the  Zalchi  woods  it  is  nice  and  shady,  and  pleasant  to 
read  there. 

Matoush. —  Yes,  on  Zalchi,  of  course, —  but  what  a  distance.'' 

Kocianova. —  Do  you  still  remember,  Petrichek,  how  you  got 
lost  on  Zalchi  when  you  went  to  pick  strawberries  t  Good  God,  but 
that's  so  many  years  ago! 

Petr  {smiling) . —  At  least  twenty. 

Kocianova. —  If  not  more,  my  dear  boy.  Why  you  were  only 
such  a  bit  of  a  schoolboy;  but  even  at  that  time  your  dear  father 
was  already  with  God. 

Matoush. —  It  will  be  twenty-four  years  on  Saint  Vaclav's  day 
since  he  died. 

Kocianova. —  Twenty-four  already.  How  the  years  go!  And 
how  old  are  you,  Petrichek.'* 

Petr. —  Almost  twenty-eight. 

Matoush. —  To  be  sure,  to  be  sure.     You  were  almost  fourteen 


or»o  -r  Q  I 


420  THE  CLOUDS 

when  we  sent  you  to  the  gymnasium. 

Kovianova. —  And  then  you  lost  two  years  on  account  of  that 
sickness. 

Matoush. —  What  happened  that  time  on  Zalchi }  I  don't 
recollect 

Petr  (with  a  smile). —  Well,  at  that  time! — with  that  little  girl 
from  Prague, —  don't  you  remember.^ 

Matoush. —  Ach,  with  the  one  whose  father  restored  our  church.? 

Kocianova. —  Yes,  yes,  with  her.  And  wasn't  she  great  friends 
with  our  little  Petr.?  The  girl  was  only  a  little  tot,  but  such  a  good 
child.  I  can  see  her  even  now.  On  her  little  neck  she  had  a  string 
of  little  red  corals,  and  Frank  Dolegsh  teased  her  whenever  he  saw 
her,  *'Give  me  those  pretty  corals,  Marenka."  Marenka  she  was 
called,  wasn't  she.? 

Petr. —  Yes,  Marenka,  I  think. 

Kocianova. —  Well,  and  one  fine  day  just  as  the  boy  was  teasing 
her  again,  the  girl  says  something  sharp  to  him,  and  then  dear  Frank, 
—  bang!  goes  and  tears  down  the  whole  string  from  her  neck.  The 
corals  were  scattered  all  over  the  ground,  and  the  girl  was  like  wild. 
Our  Petrik  was  sitting  here  on  the  doorstep  —  just  as  if  I  would  see 
him  to-day  —  and  just  as  the  girl  started  to  cry,  he  flew  at  Frank, 
and  soon  he  was  on  top  of  him  {laughing).  You  used  to  be  such  a 
wild  fellow,  Petrichek. 

Petr  {quietly). —  I  used  to  be,  maminka,  I  used  to  be. 

Matoush  {laughing). —  Oh  yes,  I  also  remember  it  now.  And 
afterward  they  had  to  pick  up  all  those  corals,  and  finally  I  pun- 
ished them  both. 

Petr. —  What  became  of  that  girl,  I  wonder.? 

Matoush. —  She  lost  her  father  so  suddenly.  It  is  a  great  pity. 
He  was  such  a  good  and  skilful  man;  at  that  time  he  fixed  up  our 
church  so  well  that  it  has  no  equal,  far  or  near. 

Kocianova. —  Oh,  well,  I  suppose  she  has  been  married  a  long 
time  now.     Why,  she  was  only  a  few  days  younger  than  our  Petr. 

Petr. — Yes,  they  used  to  tease  me  by  calling  me  her  bridegroom. 
Frank,  even  after  many  years,  used  to  shout,  "Where  is  your  wife 
Marenka.?" 

Kocianova. —  Ah,  what  do  the  children  not  chatter  together! 

Petr. —  And  what  life  makes  of  it!     {Silence.) 

Matoush. —  Oh,  it  was  at  that  time  on  Zalchi  that  you  and  she 
lost  your  way.     Now  I  am  recollecting.     What  trouble  there  was  here 


JAROSLAV  KVAPIL  421 

in  the  house  when  you  weren't  home  after  the  Angelus. 

Petr. —  Talk  about  the  Angelus !  Why,  it  was  perfectly  dark  when 
the  Herstein  forester  found  us  in  the  woods  and  brought  us  home. 

Kocianova. —  And  here  am  I  listening  to  you  and  forgetting  all 
about  the  lunch  {Going  out).     Shall  I  bring  it  into  the  hall? 

Matoush. —  Yes,  do,  Marianka,  do,  it's  nice  and  cool  there. 

Kocianova. —  I  will  get  it  ready  at  once  {exit). 

Matoush  {after  a  while). —  See,  Petr,  how  the  time  flies.  It  isn't 
such  a  long  time  ago  since  you  came  back  on  a  vacation,  and  soon 
it  will  be  after  harvesting,  and  then  you'll  have  to  get  ready  to  go 
back  to  the  seminary  again. 

Petr. —  God  willing,  a  year  from  to-day  I  will  serve  my  first  mass. 

Matoush. —  Yes,  and  next  year  after  the  harvest  you  will  settle 
down  some  place  as  a  pastor.  Your  mother  would  like  to  see  it  even 
now. 

Petr. —  Poor  maminka. 

Matoush. —  My  poor  mother  cried  for  me  when  I  served  my  first 
mass,  but  not  from  joy.  She  wanted  me  to  be  a  doctor.  But  there 
wasn't  enough  money  for  that.  And  see,  Petr,  I  have  been  conse- 
crated for  thirty-two  years,  and  this  is  the  twenty-sixth  year  that  I 
have  been  in  this  lonely  farm.  Why,  why,  I  am  almost  sixty  {pause). 
Do  you  still  remember,  Petr,  how  we  sat  here,  just  as  to-day, 
under  this  tree,  at  the  time  when  you  were  about  to  enter  the  Semi- 
nary.? How  many  times,  my  dear  boy,  have  I  thought  of  it  since. 
Didn't  I  myself,  years  ago,  dislike  to  go  where  I  was  sending  you? 
And  I  went  voluntarily  at  that.  When  we  sat  down  in  the  buggy 
at  that  time,  and  I  took  you  to  the  railway  station,  I  felt  just  as  if  I 
were  leaving  my  home  again  to  go  to  some  place  where  I  really  did 
not  want  to  go.  But  I  had  to  go  and  see  you ;  you,  too,  probably  had 
to  go.  {After  a  while.)  But,  see  here,  Petr,  I  should  not  talk  to 
you  in  this  way.  I  am  a  priest  and  you  too  will  become  one  soon; 
and  perhaps  I  ought  to  pray  for  the  constant  and  undisturbed  peace 
of  your  soul.  But  we  are  men  now;  grown-up  men,  and  they  say 
that  men  are  the  masters  of  their  fates.  Tell  me,  my  boy — are 
you  content  ?     And  do  you  hope  to  be  always  content  ? 

Petr  {quietly). —  Always,  uncle. 

Matoush. —  God  forbid  that  I  should  try  to  misguide  you  now 
when  you  stand  at  the  threshold  of  a  new  career,  which  has  been  the 
lifelong  wish  and  dream  of  your  mother  and  which  has  become  your 
own  ambition  also.     But  I  am  an  old  man,  Petr,  and  to  us  old  people 


422  THE   CLOUDS 

and  especially  to  those  who  during  their  lives  have  always  had 
enough  time  to  meditate  about  themselves  —  is  given  as  a  recom- 
pense for  their  inactive  past,  an  insight  as  clear  as  of  summer  nights 
when  the  most  distant  things  are  in  view.  I  was  never  a  religious 
fanatic,  although  even  if  I  had  taken  up  a  different  calling  I  would 
have  never  ceased  to  be  a  believer.  To  your  mother  I  do  not  dare 
to  talk  about  these  things  at  all.  She  considers  priests  as  the  incar- 
nation of  religious  belief  —  because  she  never  heard  ;of  anything 
else.  To  her  we  are  the  living  embodiment  of  faith,  the  assurance 
of  the  nearness  of  her  God.  But,  believe  me.  He  exists  even  without 
us  and  our  preaching.  {Pause.)  You  are  surprised,  Petr,  isn't  it  so, 
that  a  priest  should  talk  in  this  way.^  I,  your  former  instructor,  your 
guardian,  the  very  priest  whose  hand  led  you  into  the  service  of  the 
Church. 

Petr. —  Frankly,  uncle,  while  I  listen  to  you  I  feel  the  strangeness 
of  your  talk.  But  it  seems  to  me  that  I  understand  you  well  — 
at  least,  it  seems  so  to  me.  I  comprehend  your  situation  more 
through  feeling  than  reason.  Indeed,  my  reason  has  not  been  given 
the  opportunity  to  pursue  an  independent  path  of  its  own  liking 
—  but  had  to  follow  the  clerical  path.  I  see  now  that  in  the  Church 
it  is  very  much  as  it  is  in  the  Army.  Those  who  enter  must  leave 
reason  and  independence  behind  them.  You  are  not  to  think  —  but 
to  believe.  Believe  me,  I  would  have  perhaps  rebelled  against  my 
mother's  commands  had  it  not  been  for  you  and  for  the  example  you 
have  set.  Your  loyalty  in  everything,  in  work,  in  the  love  of 
your  kindred  amidst  this  graveyard  solitude  of  a  country  parsonage, 
gave  me  confidence  that  I  also  would  be  able  to  fulfil  my  mother's 
wish  —  and  that  I  will  be  strong  enough  to  kill  all  bolder  hopes  and 
dreams  of  young  ambition. 

Matoush. —  You  are  a  good  boy,  Petr,  and  I  would  even  say  that 
you  are  a  worthy  man,  were  it  not  that  I  myself  wish  often  that  men 
would  and  should  be  stronger  than  we  both  are.  May  God  strengthen 
and  protect  you.  {Patting  him  lightly.)  And  don't  blame  your 
old  uncle,  my  dear  fellow,  if  he  talked  to  you  as  a  priest  ought  not 
talk.  {Gets  up.)  But  let's  come,  come  —  maminka  has  most  likely 
just  as  much  as  we  forgot  about  the  meal.  {Goes  a  jew  steps  and 
calls  out.)     Well,  Marianka,  aren't  you  going  to  invite  us  in.'* 

Kocianova  {on  the  threshold). — Please  have  patience.  In  a  min- 
ute. The  girl  ran  away  on  me  somewhere  and  I  had  to  chop  a  bit  of 
wood  myself.     But  come  inside,  it  will  soon  be  ready.      {Goes  into  the 


JAROSLAV   KVAPIL  423 


yard.)     Where  could  that  Barushka  be  — — 

Matoush. —  Let's  come,  Petr.  {Smiling.)  Nunc  est  bibendum. 
{They  both  go  into  the  house.) 

Kocianova  {in  the  yard). —  But  what  a  girl  she  is  —  {Crosses  the 
yard.)  Barushka!  {Goes  out  through  the  gate.)  Barushka, —  can 
you  hear  me? 

( The  stage  remains  empty  for  a  while.  AIaya  appears  in  the  gate- 
way. She  is  lightly  dressed  and  carries  a  parasol  which  she  shuts  when 
she  enters.     She  looks  around  meditatively.) 

Kocianova  {whose  voice  can  be  heard  from  a  nearby  house). —  But 
Barushka,  Barushka  —  where  have  you  been? 

Petr  {comes  out  on  the  threshold  and  calls). —  Maminka,    maminka, 

where  did  you  put ?     {Having  seen  Maya  he  does  not  finish  the 

sentence.,  but  stops  and  greets  her  quietly.)     Good  afternoon. 

Maya. —  Ach!  Pardon  me,  reverend  sir,  that  I  have  come  into 
your  yard  without  permission. 

Petr. —  You  are  welcome.     Are  you  looking  for  somebody? 

Maya. —  Oh  no  —  mere  inquisitiveness.  I  just  wanted  to  see 
your  parsonage  from  the  outside,  at  least.  Old  memories,  don't  you 
know.  Would  you  permit  me  to  look  into  the  hall.  There  used  to 
be  some  old  blackened  pictures  there  and  I  used  to  be  so  afraid  of 
them. 

Petr  {steps  off  the  threshold  —  he  ?notio7is  to  her  to  enter). —  If  you 
please! 

Maya  {approaches  the  threshold,  but  stops). —  Ach!  Pardon. 
I  must  explain  why  I  am  interested.  My  name  is  Maya  Zemanova 
and  I  come  from  Prague. 

Petr  {so7newhat  embarrassed). —  Yes 

Maya. —  I  used  to  live  here  —  many,  many  years  ago.  And 
this  year  some  vagabond  spirit  brought  me  again  into  your  neighbor- 
hood. I  am  in  Breskowitz  for  my  vacation.  {She  looks  around.) 
Wonderful!  To  my  imagination  your  parsonage  seemed  a  tremen- 
dous building,  your  yard  according  to  my  recollection  was  at  least 
as  big  as  a  town  square,  even  that  tree  there  seems  to  me  very  much 
smaller  than  it  was  in  my  memory  —  and  the  tree  must  have  grown 
since  that  time. 

Petr. — You  must  have  been  away  from  here  for  a  long  time, 
madam. 

Maya  {laughing). —  Years,  many  years.  But,  reverend  sir,  you 
were  not  here  then. 


424  THE   CLOUDS 

Petr. —  Impossible,  madam,  I  was  born  here. 

Maya. —  You  don't  tell  me  —  but  then  you  did  not  say 
Mass. 

Petr. —  I  don't  say  it,  even  now,  madam.  I  have  not  yet  been 
ordained. 

Maya. —  Is  that  so.^     I  thought  that  you  were  the  local  pastor. 

Petr. —  Oh,  no  —  I  am  only  a  theological  student. 

Maya. —  Ach.  So.  You  are  only  a  bachelor,  only,  ha.? 
{Laughing.) 

Petr  {smiles). —  Yes,  only  a  bachelor,  dear  madam. 

Maya  {laughing). —  Well,  then,  I  am  not  a  madam,  as  yet  either. 

Petr  {embarrassed). —  Pardon  me,  Miss. 

Maya  {still  jolly). —  Who  can  help  it  that  I  look  like  a  married 
lady.  {After  awhile.)  And  if  you  please,  Mr.  —  Mr.  —  see,  now 
I  don't  know  what  title  to  give  you.  May  I  not  call  you  "reverend 
sir"? 

Petr. —  My  name  is  Kocian,  Miss. 

Maya  {lightly). —  Delighted.  Is  not  that  priest  here  any  more, 
who  used  to  be  here  years  ago.?  I  have  such  a  bad  memory  for 
names. 

Petr. —  My  uncle  has  served  in  this  place  for  almost  twenty-six 
years. 

Maya  {with  warmth). —  Your  uncle.? 

Petr. —  Yes,  Pater  Ian  Matoush. 

Maya. —  Yes!  Yes!  Father  Matoush.  But,  God  in  heaven,  is 
your  name  Petr.? 

Petr  {surprised). —  Really,  Miss,  Petr  is  my  name. 

Maya. —  Petr!  Petr!  {Shakes  his  hand  cordially.)  And  did 
you  not  recognize  me.? 

Petr    {embarrassed) . —  You  —  Miss .? 

Maya. —  Not  even  by  my  name.?  Ah,  of  course,  the  name  I 
gave  you  is  of  later  date.  That  is  my  stage  name.  You  know  I  am 
an  actress. 

Petr  {involuntarily  releases  her  hand). —  Is  that  so.? 

Maya  {laughing). —  But  did  not  you  get  frightened!  {More 
seriously.)  My  real  name  is  Marie  Preisova  —  but  I  am  entirely 
used  to  the  other  name. 

Petr  {suddenly  remembering). —  Marie  Preisova.  {Quickly.) 
Your  father  worked  on  our  church,  here,  did  he  not.? 

Maya  {cordially). —  And  during  that  time  I  was  the  ward  of  the 


JAROSLAV   KVAPIL  425 

parsonage,  surely,  surely.  My  mother  was  already  dead  and  papa 
took  me  with  him  every  vacation. 

Petr. —  Ach !  Miss  Preisova  —  this  is,  indeed,  strange.  We  were 
just  talking  about  you. 

Maya. —  You  —  about  me."*  Why,  do  you  still  remember  me? 
And  with  whom  were  you  talking  about  me,  please? 

Petr. —  Why,  with  uncle  and  maminka. 

Maya. —  Is  maminka  still  alive?  She  is  the  priest's  sister,  is 
she  not? 

Petr. —  Yes,  she  has  been  keeping  house  for  my  uncle  since  my 
father's  death. 

Maya. —  What  a  surprise,  Mr.  Petr,  I  daresay.  You  are  not 
angry  at  me  for  calling  you  by  your  first  name? 

Petr. —  Ah.     If  you  please  —  Miss 

Maya  {suddenly,  surprised). —  And  you  are  also  a  priest  —  or 
you  are  going  to  be  one!  Who  would  have  thought  that  of  you?  I 
always  remembered  you  with  that  big  paper  cap  on  your  head  and 
your  long  wooden  sabre  —  who  could  have  known  that  from  such  a 
courageous  hero  the  after  years  would  hatch  out  a  colorless  country 
parson  ? 

Petr  {somewhat  astonished;  then  he  says  slowly  and  quietly) . —  It 
had  to  be! 

Maya  {seriously). —  It  had  to  be!  Ach,  yes,  Mr.  Petr,  every- 
thing had  to  be!  {Merrily.)  And  how  about  me  —  did  you  ever 
think  that  I  would  become  an  actress? 

Petr  {quiet  smile). —  Rather  a  fairy  princess.  Miss,  as  you  your- 
self used  to  tell  me  in  those  days. 

Maya. —  Yes,  a  fairy  princess.  Down  below  on  a  hedge  near 
the  brook  we  had  our  castle  in  a  watchman's  booth. 

Petr. —  Yes,  and  I  used  to  go  out,  sabre  in  hand  every  time 
Frank  Dolejsh  would  come  to  besiege  our  cherry  trees. 

Maya. —  And  once  you  walloped  him  on  account  of  me,  ha? 

Petr. —  Many  times.  Even  after  you  went  away  from  here 
Frank  got  many  whippings  on  account  of  you. 

Maya. —  Is  it  possible!     And  why? 

Petr  {embarrassed). —  Why  —  well  why?  But  that  is  no  longer 
true.     {Pause.) 

Maya  {pensively). —  "Gib  meine  Jugend  mir  zuriick"  .  .  .  . 
{Quickly  changing  the  subject.)  And  maminka,  is  she  well?  And 
uncle,  how  is  he? 


426  THE   CLOUDS 

Petr  {hurriedly,  getting  out  of  his  embarrassment) . —  The  Lord 
be  praised  —  they  are  both  well.  And  won't  they  be  glad!  How 
stupid  of  me!  Here  I  am  talking  with  you  without  inviting  you 
inside. 

Maya  {smiles  and  remains  standing  on  the  threshold  —  she  looks 
around.) 

Petr. —  But  I'll  have  to  call  maminka.  {Hurries  through  the 
yard.)     Maminka,  maminka!     {Goes  around  the  corner.) 

Maya  {steps  inside  the  yard  and  looks  about.  She  gazes  at  the 
stern,  white  walls  of  the  rectory  and  looks  at  the  tree,  then  goes  back  to 
the  house  and  sits  down  on  the  bench.  She  begins  to  write  on  the  sand 
with  her  parasol,  reciting  to  herself  half  aloud.) 

Kocianova  {still  behind  the  scenes). —  And  what  a  visit.  What  a 
visit!  {Enters,  followed  by  Petr)  —  My  dear,  golden  soul.  What  a 
guest,  what  a  guest!  {Goes  over  to  Maya,  who  rises  and  goes  toward 
her.) 

Maya. —  Mrs.  Kocianova,  do  you  still  remember  me.^  {She 
embraces  and  kisses  her.) 

Kocianova. —  Ach.  My  dear,  golden  Miss.  You  are  no  longer 
that  little  Marenka  who  used  to  romp  around  with  our  Petr.  Such  a 
lady  from  the  city!     I  really  don't  know,  Aliss 

Maya. —  And  I  used  to  think  of  all  of  you  so  often.  Believe  me, 
I  often  wanted  to  come  here.  Last  year  I  was  in  Pilsen  and  I  was 
all  ready  to  make  a  trip  over  here,  but  just  then  I  got  a  telegram  to 
return  to  Prague  and  I  had  to  go  back. 

Kocianova. —  And  during  all  this  time  you  never  wrote  to  us. 
My  brother  read  at  that  time  in  the  newspaper  that  your  father  was 
with  God. 

Maya. —  Those  were  very  sad  times  for  me,  Mrs.  Kocianova. 
My  father  fell  off  a  scaffolding  when  they  were  rebuilding  a  church  in 
Skalitz,  and  when  I  got  there  he  was  already  dead. 

Kocianova. —  My  poor  soul! 

Maya. —  And  then  I  was  not  even  fifteen.  And  soon  after  that 
my  aunt  who  adopted  me  died,  too,  and  since  my  seventeenth  year  I 
have  been  all  alone  in  the  world.  I  was  in  Germany  for  a  couple  of 
years,  but  this  is  now  my  sixth  year  in  Prague. 

Kocianova. —  Well,  as  long  as  you  are  healthy  and  happy. 

Maya. —  Well,  health  I  have,  thank  God  —  and  as  for  happiness, 
I  don't  get  enough  time  for  that. 

Petr. —  Miss is  with  the  theater  in  Prague,  maminka. 


JAROSLAV   KVAPIL  427 

Kocianova. —  Is  that  possible  —  that  big  one?  And  she  plays 
parts  there,  does  she  not? 

Maya. —  It's  funny,  isn't  it?     And  almost  ten  years  now. 

Kocianova. —  That  must  be  an  odd  calling.  And  don't  you  find 
it  hard? 

Maya. —  That  is  how  I  make  my  living. 

Petr. —  That's  why  I  could  not  recognize  Miss .  She  in- 
troduced herself  by  her  stage  name. 

Kocianova  {confused). —  And  has  she  a  different  name  now 
than  she  had  then? 

Maya. —  You  see,  Mrs.  Kocianova,  at  first  I  did  not  want  to 
play  under  my  own  name,  because  so  many  people  knew  my  father, 
and  now  I  am  better  used  to  the  other  name. 

Kocianova  {surprised) . —  Why,  is  that  possible? 

Maya  {lightly). —  Why  not?  To-day  no  one  knows  me  by  the 
old  name. 

Petr. —  About  such  things  we  have  no  idea,  maminka. 

Kocianova  {quietly). —  We  have  not,  to  be  sure.  {After  a  while.) 
But  you  must  come  inside,  Miss.  Brother  will  be  surprised,  I  tell 
you! 

Maya. —  Really,  I  hardly  feel  like  leaving  this  yard.  Why,  we 
used  to  stay  here  from  morning  till  night.  Here  on  the  threshold, 
there  on  the  bench  and  there  under  the  trees.  Out  into  the  hali  I 
was  almost  afraid  to  go  on  account  of  those  big  black  pictures. 

Kocianova. —  Could  I  offer  you  a  glass  of  our  cream? 

Maya. —  Your  cream?  If  you  please,  Mrs.  Kocianova.  Poor 
father,  for  many  years  he  used  to  say,  "There  is  nothing  like  that 
cream  from  Luschitz." 

Kocianova. —  So  come  right  inside,  Miss,  right  inside.  Go, 
Petrichek,  and  take  the  Miss  inside,  I'll  go  and  get  something. 

Maya  {jolly). —  But  wait,  Mrs.  Kocianova,  I  will  go  in  alone. 
I'll  appear  before  the  pater  in  the  same  way  that  I  appeared  before 
Mr.  Petr.  I  wonder  if  he  will  know  me.  {Laughs.)  Do  you  know, 
Mrs.  Kocianova,  that  Petr  kept  on  calling  me  "madam,"  before  he 
recognized  me.     Well,  well  —  who  is  to  blame  that  I  am  not  married? 

Kocianova. —  The  young  lady  is  nothing  but  jolliness.  Well, 
then,  as  you  like.  Brother  is  in  the  hall  to  the  right.  Do  you 
remember  the  way? 

Maya  {lightly). —  I  wonder  what  I  could  say  to  him,  so  he  would 
not  know  me.     Well,  I'll  try  to  think  of  something.     I  will  be  out 


428  THE   CLOUDS 

in  a  minute,  so  please  wait.     (Going  inside.)     To  the  right,  then 

(Goes  in.) 

Petr  (confused;  stands  in  the  midst  of  the  courtyard). 

Kocianova  (after  a  pause). —  Really,  really  —  I  cannot  get  it 
into  my  head.  And  that  this  should  be  that  little  Marenka  Preisova 
from   Prague.     Petrichek 

Petr  (rousing). —  Yes,  yes,  but  I  have  changed,  too,  maminka. 

Kocianova. —  You  I  have  not  lost  from  my  sight,  my  dear  boy, 
and  so  it  does  not  seem  so  strange. 

Petr. —  And  then  I  grew  up  differently. 

Kocianova. —  And  how  sincere  and  cordial  she  is!  Would  you 
believe  that  when  I  saw.  her  the  first  time  I  really  did  not  know  what 
to  say  to  her.^  But  she  came  to  me  at  once,  with  a  "My  dear  Mrs. 
Kocianova,"  and  kissed  me  just  like  my  own  child. 

Petr. —  She  must  have  met  with  but  little  love  in  this  world. 

Kocianova. —  Yes,  the  poor  thing,  since  her  fifteenth  year  with- 
out a  mother  or  a  father!     And  in  her  best  years ! 

Petr. —  And  still  she  went  independently  through  life.  A  little 
girl  fighting  life's  battle  unaided,  single  handed.  Think  of  that, 
maminka!  And  in  those  years  I  was  only  a  petty  gymnasium 
student.     And  even  to-day  I  am  —  nothing. 

Kocianova. —  But  you  soon  will  be,  God  willing 

Petr. —  A  forgotten  country  parson. 

Kocianova. —  Believe  me,  my  boy,  that  is  something  even 
greater  than  her  calling.  Well,  I  don't  know.  Only  if  she  is  as 
good  a  girl  as  she  seems.  Surely,  it  is  a  gift  from  God  that  she 
attained  to  all  these  things  —  but  I  don't  know  what  and  how  it  is  — 
I  don't  know  yet. 

Petr. —  Without  doubt  it  is  something  beautiful  and  great. 
See  how  free  and  unrestrained  she  is  in  her  talk  to  jus  and  her 
actions.  Wonderful!  When  I  was  in  the  gymnasium  I  went  to  the 
theater  now  and  then,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  these  women  were 
really  not  women  at  all,  just  as  if  some  master  created  an  ideal  being 
and  it  was  artistically  placed  upon  the  stage.  One  of  the  ac- 
tresses lived  near  our  house  at  the  time  when  I  lived  with  old  Mrs. 
Morfeit.  And  she  was  a  wonderful  woman.  I  always  thought  that 
I  would  die  of  embarrassment  if  she  should  ever  speak  to  me  on  the 
street.     And  that's  the  way  I  have  always  imagined  all  actresses  were. 

Kocianova. —  I  don't  understand  those  things  at  all.  One  hears 
about  it  once  in  a  while,  but  never  knows  about  it.     But  when  I  look 


JAROSLAV   KVAPIL  429 

at  that  girl  there  I  begin  to  believe  it.  Only  she  must  be  better, 
more  open  hearted  than  the  others  —  Well!  I  don't  know  how  I 
should  say  it.  When  one  hears  a  goodly  creature  like  that  one  feels 
better  and  the  world  grows  brighter. 

Petr. —  And  what  must  the  men  of  their  world  be  if  a  woman  can 
be  so  free  and  independent  — how  those  men  must  live!  Does  it  not 
seem  to  you,  maminka,  that  they  are  entirely  different  people  of  a 
different  world  than  ours.^     And  that  world  is  so  far  away. 

Kocianova  (softly). —  Well,  let  it  be  far  away.  As  long  as  we  can 
love  some  one.  If  God  wills  it,  neither  are  you  living  in  vain.  Did 
I  not  pray  to  Him  for  you .? 

Petr  {somewhat  moved). —  And  I  also  thank  Him  daily  that  I 
still  have  you.  {Cordially.)  Let  His  will  be  done,  maminka,  as 
long  as  you  find  joy  in  me. 

Kocianova  {pats  him  lightly). —  My  good,  my  only  Petrichek. 

Petr  {after  a  while). —  Well,  I  daresay  that  uncle  was  surprised 
when  he  saw  her.     I  wonder  if  she  has  told  him  yet  who  she  is. 

Maya  {running  out  of  the  house). —  Well,  you  should  have  seen  it! 
You  should  have  seen  it! 

Kocianova. — Did  brother  know  you.  Miss.? 

Maya. —  No,  not  at  all.  {To  the  priest  who  is  coming  after  her.) 
He  made  so  many  guesses,  did  you  not, —  but  never  guessed  right! 

Matoush. —  What  do  you  think  of  that,  Marianka.?  And  you, 
Petr? 

Petr. —  I  did  not  know  Miss  Preisova,  either,  uncle. 

Matoush. —  And  do  you  know  who  I  thought  she  was  when  she 
entered.  The  Countess  of  Herstein.  I  was  reading  without  my 
glasses,  when  she  knocked  and  came  in.  That  figure  and  that  light 
dress. 

Maya. —  And  I  of  course  played  my  little  part  and  the  reverend 
sir  started  off,  "Your  Grace."  Only  that  as  soon  as  he  put  on  his 
glasses  he  saw 

Matoush. —  But  still  I  did  not  know  where  to  place  her 

Maya. —  See,  see,  reverend  sir.  To-day  you  would  hardly  call 
me  "you  over-patted  cry  baby."  Really,  that's  what  he  called  me 
once  when  I  began  to  whimper  for  no  reason  and  he  was  in  a  hurry. 

Matoush. —  But  I  am  afraid  that  it  was  a  little  worse  than  you 
tell  us. 

Maya. —  Yes,  it  was.  At  the  end  I  got  a  good  slap  from  you 
because  I  would  not  stop. 


430  THE  CLOUDS 

Kocianova  {laughing  loudly). — Is  that  possible,  Miss! 

Maya. —  And  believe  me,  Mrs.  Kocianova,  for  such  a  slap  I 
would  gladly  go  back  into  the  days  of  my  childhood,  even  to-day. 
My  childhood  was  not  very  long,  but  beautiful. 

Petr. —  The  present  must  be  even  more  beautiful. 

Maya. —  That  only  seems  so  to  you,  as  to  many  others.  But 
you,  Mr.  Petr,  you  must  have  enjoyed  your  young  years  even  more 
than  I. 

Petr  {slightly  bitter). —  Do  you  think  so,  Miss.^* 

Kocianova. —  Ach,  my  dear,  golden  soul!  Petr  had  a  very  sad 
childhood.  Even  at  the  time  when  he  was  home.  Brother  did  not 
know  for  a  long  while  whether  he  would  send  him  to  the  city  to 
study.  He  was  already  fourteen  when  brother  decided,  and  then, 
the  poor  thing,  he  fell  sick,  and  we  had  to  have  him  home  for  a  long, 
long  while.     And  how  many  times  did  Dr.  Votava  come  here.'' 

Matoush. —  Yes,  he  was  almost  a  goner. 

Kocianova. — -  And  then  I  used  to  kneel  and  pray  many,  many 
nights  and  call  upon  God  to  save  him.  It  was  at  that  time  that  I 
promised  him  to  the  Lord  —  and  He  accepted  my  promise  and  He 
saved  him. 

Maya  {attentive,  with  interest). —  And  at  that  time  you  decided 
what  Mr.  Petr  should  be.'' 

Kocianova. —  The  Lord  Himself  decided. 

Maya  {after  a  pause). —  None  of  us  knows  where  Fate  will  take 
us,  I  never  thought  of  going  on  the  stage.  I  wanted  to  be  a  teacher. 
And  besides,  did  you  know  that  I  was  also  in  a  convent.'' 

Kocianova  {interested). —  Were  you.  Miss.'' 

Maya. —  It  was  really  a  girlish  whim.  After  my  father's  death 
in  all  that  loneliness  and  worry  I  longed  for  a  quiet  haven.  In  my 
seventeenth  year  I  thought  that  my  life  was  all  spent  and  I  had  such 
a  craving  for  solitude  and  peace.  So  I  went  to  the  Mother  Abbess  of 
Sacre  Coeur. 

Kocianova. —  Well,  and 

Maya. —  And  a  half  a  year  after  that  I  was  on  the  stage.  I  have 
no  idea  how  it  all  happened!  The  convent  did  not  quite  come  up  to 
my  expectations,  and  in  the  meantime  one  of  my  aunt's  acquaintances 
met  me  and  she  was  an  amateur  actress.  For  a  year  I  played  in 
German  places  —  I  knew  German  well,  you  know.  My  father 
used  to  send  me  to  a  German  high  school.  So  I  played  in  Germany 
for  some  time,  and  as  soon  as  I  could  I  came  back. 


JAROSLAV  KVAPIL  431 

Petr. —  And  are  you  happy,  Miss?  ^ 

Maya  {lightly). —  Yes  —  happy.  We  are  all  happy  as  long  as 
we  have  enough  to  do  and  enough  to  think  about.  But  here  ami  talk- 
ing about  myself  all  the  time.  And  how  are  you  getting  along,  Father.? 
Matoush. —  I .?  At  my  age  thinking  becomes  an  unnecessary 
function.  I  was  farming  already  at  the  time  when  you  were  with  us 
—  and  well  the  years  passed  by  without  much  change.  Only  that 
we  have  grown  much  older,  and  Petr  grew  up.  And  after  we  have 
gone,  he,  too,  will  get  old  and  so  we  will  all  pass  away  without  leaving 
anybody  or  anything  to  this  world,  except  three  neglected  poor- 
looking  crosses  in  the  churchyard. 
Kocianova. —  God's  will  be  done! 

Matoush. —  But  you  are  a  nice  hostess,  Marianka.  Aren't  you 
going  to  offer  something  to  Miss  Preisova .? 

Maya  {laughing). —  We  have  forgotten  all  about  that  cream. 
But  don't  trouble  yourself,  Mrs.  Kocianova.  I  will  come  again,  if 
you  will  permit  me. 

Kocianova. —  No  trouble  at  all,  Miss.  When  you  come  again, 
you  can  have  some  again,  and  every  day  if  you  like. 

Dr.  Votava  {coming  from  the  outside). —  Hello  there,  everybody! 
And  what  do  you  think  of  this!  Here  is  Miss  Zemanova  in  the 
rectory.     Extremes  have  met!     {Greeting  every  one.) 

Maya. —  We  are  old  friends,  aren't  we,  reverend  sir.''  And  how 
about  you,  Doctor,  have  you  a  patient  here.? 

Votava. —  Not  here  in  the  parsonage.  Mrs.  Kocianova  is  about 
again  as  chipper  as  a  bird.  But  old  Rynesh  down  there  in  the  village 
is  getting  along  very  badly.  I  am  just  coming  from  him.  The  old 
woman,  poor  thing,  is  wailing  awfully.  Would  not  you  go  over 
there,  Father.?  I  promised  her  that  I  would  stop  in  here  and  ask  you 
to  come  over  with  the  Sacrament. 

Kocianova. —  So  —  so  —  it  is  true,  after  all.  Well,  he  has  been 
very  miserable  lately. 

Matoush. —  I  will  get  ready  at  once,  doctor.  Petr,  go  and  get 
the  sexton.     And  you,  Marianka,  don't  forget  the  young  lady. 

Petr  {going). —  I  am  going.  I'll  take  a  short  cut  through  the 
garden.      {Goes  out  around  the  house.) 

Matoush. —  Yes,  and  I'll  follow  you  at  once.  Well,  let's  go. 
Shall  I  see  you  again,  doctor.? 

Votava.^  I  don't  know.  I  thought  of  giving  Miss  Zemanova  a 
ride.     My  buggy  is  below  at  the  inn. 


432  THE   CLOUDS 

Maya. —  I  really  wanted  to  go  by  the  fields. 

Votava. —  I  would  not  advise  you.  You  might  get  wet.  The 
clouds  are  pretty  darkly  gathered  above  Zalchi. 

Kocianova. —  God  forbid.  Our  people  are  still  in  the  fields. 
But  now  I  must  —  {Goes  into  the  house.) 

Matoush. —  And  you,  doctor,  will  stay  a  while,  will  you  not.? 

Fotava. —  I'll  take  a  look  around  the  village  and  come  back 
here  for  Miss  Zemanova. 

Matoush. — -Well,  good  by!     {Goes  into  the  house.) 

Votava. —  And  how  do  you  come  to  be  here,  Miss  Zemanova.'* 

Maya. —  I  used  to  be  a  guest  here  many  years  ago. 

Votava. —  Ach  surely!  My  wife  was  telling  me  about  it  the 
other  day.    I  forgot. 

Maya. —  No  wonder.     A  busy,  worried  man  like  you! 

Votava. —  And  don't  you  think  that  we  have  no  worries!  We 
in  the  villages  are,  as  it  were,  isolated  from  the  rest  of  the  world,  but  we 
still  have  our  worries. 

Maya. —  Listen,  doctor,  do  you  often  come  here  to  the  rectory.? 

Votava. —  Now  and  then.  Whenever  it  is  necessary.  Every 
time  I  come  to  the  village  I  always  stop  here  to  see  the  old  man.  He 
is  one  of  those  old-fashioned  ones.     One  still  can  talk  to  such. 

Maya. —  Young  Kocian  is  of  the  younger  generation,  I  suppose.? 

Votava. —  Well,  at  the  present  time  he  is  not.  That  is  —  I 
don't  know.  On  the  whole,  he  is  a  poor  talker.  Perhaps  his  semi- 
nary life  did  not  contribute  much  to  his  happiness. 

Maya  {with  interest). —  How  is  that.? 

Votava. —  The  boy  used  to  be  as  wild  as  an  Indian  and  then  he 
got  very  seriously  ill.  He  recovered  and  was  a  good  student.  I 
thought  that  he  would  become  something  else.  But  his  mother  was 
set  upon  the  seminary  —  and  the  uncle,  what  could  he  do.?  He  did 
not  resist  her  wishes. 

Maya. —  And  Petr.? 

Votava. —  He  humbly  goes  the  usual  path  of  our  poor  country 
students.  That's  the  way  it  always  ends  with  our  farmer  lads; 
either  they  haven't  enough  money  for  the  university  or  it's  the  wish 
of  their  pious  parents.  Our  peasants  want  all  their  sons  to  be  gentle- 
men. Well,  they  manage  to  get  them  through  the  gymnasium  some- 
how, but  then  —  it's  hard.  The  rank  and  file  of  our  young  clergy, 
even  those  who  become  religious  fanatics  later  in  life,  is  formed  thus 
from  involuntary  candidates. 


JAROSLAV   KVAPIL  433 

Maya. —  Poor  Petr! 

Votava. —  Why  poor  Petr?  Maybe  he  is  and  maybe  he  isn't. 
That's  an  individual  instance.  After  all,  our  attainments  in  life 
are  only  the  sum  total  of  our  ambitions,  so  far  as  these  could  develop 
in  our  environment.  It  all  depends  on  whether  the  individual  is 
strong  enough  to  change  his  surroundings,  if  he  finds  that  they  con- 
flict with  his  ambitions. 

Maya. —  And  what  if  such  individual  recognizes  that  fact  later 
on  in  life.''  For  instance,  suppose  that  Petr  should  to-day  awake  and 
recognize  that  his  mother's  wishes  are  of  no  importance  when  com- 
pared to  his  duty  to  himself,  his  mission  in  life,  his  happiness?  Sup- 
pose he  should  rise  up?     What  then? 

Votava. —  What  then?  Perhaps  only  a  misunderstanding,  or 
maybe  a  calamity.  My  dear  Miss  Zemanova,  it  is  not  advisable  to 
shake  the  foundations  on  which  rest  the  newer  layers  of  our  life. 
Petr  is  to-day  blindly  going  along  on  the  well-beaten  path  —  like  a 
new  chicken  in  a  strange  yard,  whose  wings  are  tied.  If  he  should 
want  to  fly  he  will  only  fly  into  a  neighboring  yard  and  would  injure 
himself  in  getting  over  the  fence.  And  they  would  catch  the  chicken 
there,  after  all;  and  if  tying  the  wings  did  not  answer  the  purpose 
they'd  cut  them  off  entirely. 

Maya. —  Salutary  theories! 

Votava. —  For  us  they  are  salutary  —  what  do  you  know?  You 
never  had  chicken  wings. 

{Petr  is  returning  from  the  outside.) 

Votava. —  It  is  agreed  then.  Miss?  I'll  take  you  with  me.  I  am 
just  going  to  see  another  patient  and  I'll  return  in  a  few  minutes. 
So,  until  then,  by  by!     {Goes  out.) 

Maya  {crosses  the  yard  and  sits  down  on  the  bench  near  the  house.) — ■ 
And  how  about  you,  Mr.  Petr,  aren't  you  ever  going  to  Prague? 

Petr. —  When  ? 

Maya. —  Any  time.  Perhaps  this  vacation.  Only  wait  until  I 
return  there.  Take  your  mother  along  with  you.  Let  your  uncle 
keep  house  alone  for  a  day  or  two. 

Petr. —  Ach.     What  do  you  think?     Maminka  — and  to  Prague! 

Maya. —  It  is  not  at  the  world's  end.  Suppose  you  had  studied 
there.     She  would  have  had  to  come  there  a  couple  of  times. 

Petr  {with  a  light  smile). —  If  I  had  studied  there!  Ah,  no, 
Miss  —  Prague  means  nothing  to  me  any  more.  First  of  all,  I  must 
finish  my  last  year,  and  then  comes  the  holy  Mass,  and  in  the  mean 


434  THE   CLOUDS 

time  I  must  not  think  of  anything  else. 

Maya. —  You  certainly  are  in  a  hurry  to  get  there. 

Petr. —  Why  shouldn't  I  be!  Others  at  my  age  already  have  a 
career  behind  them. 

Maya. —  Will  you  be  glad  when  you  are  ordained  and  are  your 
own  master  .f" 

Petr. —  Well,  I  wish  it  were  to-day. 

Maya  {inquisitively). —  You  took  up  theology  gladly,  did  you 
not? 

Petr. —  Gladly?  {Just  as  if  he  did  7iot  know  zuhat  to  answer.) 
Oh!  yes,  gladly,  even  if  only  for  my  mother's  sake. 

Maya. —  Listen  to  me,  don't  you  ever  think  of  a  greater  career? 

Petr. —  How  do  3^ou  mean  ? 

Maya. —  Well,  I  don't  know  how  you  priests  make  a  career. 
It  is  most  likely  the  same  as  in  other  lines.  A  small  country  parish 
is  not  the  end  of  your  ambitions.  What  comes  after  a  parson? 
a  dean,  ha?     Or  a  vicar?     {Laughs.) 

Petr  {with  a  smile). —  W^ell,  perhaps  —  a  dean. 

Maya. —  Yes,  and  after  a  dean  an  archdean  and  then  a  bishop. 
And  archbishop,  cardinal  {laughs).     Well,  would  not  that  be  a  career? 

Petr. —  But,  Miss,  what  are  you  thinking  of?  I  never  in  my  life 
have  thought  of  being  anything  greater  than  a  simple  country  parson. 
I  have  really  never  given  it  any  thought  at  all. 

Maya. —  Aren't  you  ambitious? 
_^-  Petr  {calmly). —  No. 

Maya. —  Peculiar!  .  (^/^^r  a  while.)  You  know  what  I  was 
thinking  of.  It  seems  to  me  that  this  calling  of  yours  does  not  aiford 
you  happiness.  I  don't  believe  that  it  is  nc^t  impossible  to  be  ambitious 
in  a  labor  of  love.  Look!  not  even  I  thought  of  being  an  actress.  First 
I  trifled  with  thai  idea,  which  later  on  became  my  existence.  But  as 
soon  as  I  gave  myself  up  to  the  theater  I  devoted  myself  to  it  with  all 
my  soul.  Passionately.  And  still,  look!  I  am  not  one  of  those  ego- 
ists who  consider  an  actor  the  crownpiece  of  society.  On  the  con- 
trary, the  profession  —  do  you  understand  me  —  not  the  art  but  the 
profession  — is  at  times  even  repulsive  to  me.  I  look  upon  most  of 
the  people  from  the  stage  point  of  view.  But  nevertheless,  I  live 
with  my  entire  soul  in  my  art,  I  am  lost  therein,  it  is  that  which  gives 
passion  and  pleasure  to  my  life  —  without  it  I  don't  know  whether  I 
could  exist. 

Petr. —  You  are  happy? 


JAROSLAV   KVAPIL  435 

Maya. —  Happy!  Since  my  childhood  I  have  not  been  entirely 
happy.  Because  happiness  to  me  seems  like  a  peaceful  rest,  calmness, 
conciliation  with  life.  But  my  life  is  nothing  but  activity,  effort,  and 
struggle.  I  must  always  aspire  further  and  higher,  without  a  min- 
ute's rest,  without  stop.  Instead  of  my  passion  for  happiness,  I 
have  only  my  ambition;  I  find  joy  in  work,  joy  in  beauty,  and  I 
know  how  to  become  infatuated  even  with  the  joy  of  life.  But 
happy,  that  which  you  call  "happiness,"  happy  I  am  not.  And  see, 
I  often  yearn  for  that  happiness  —  like  that  happiness  of  my  child- 
hood; but  not  until  to-day  did  I  know  that  such  happiness  would  be 
sufficient  for  me.  I  don't  want  it  —  although  I  know  that  it  exists  — 
only  it  does  not  exist  for  me. 

Petr  {does  not  understand  her  clearly). —  You  have  lived  so  differ- 
ently from  me.     I  believe  you,  but  I  do  not  understand. 

Maya. —  That's  because  you  never  knew  the  charm  of  your  call- 
ing. In  the  selfsame  way  you  could  have  been  a  lawyer  or  a  phy- 
sician. You  decided  to  become  a  priest  because  your  mother 
wanted  it.  And  in  the  same  way  that  you  believe  me,  but  do  not 
understand,  so  do  I  believe  that  you  will  gladly  become  a  priest. 
You  are,  namely,  happy  because  until  now  you  have  not  aspired 
for  anything  different. 

Petr. —  Do  you  think  so  ^. 

Maya. —  Yes.  Perhaps  you  never  aspired  for  anything  differ- 
ent because  they  separated  you  in  time  from  everything.  You  look 
neither  to  the  left  nor  to  the  right,  and  obediently  go  the  commanded 
way.  You  go  gladly,  you  say.  But,  Mr.  Petr,  did  you  ever  feel 
joy  on  the  way? 

Petr. —  My  calling  is  not  supposed  to  be  a  joyful  one. 

Maya. —  Don't  think  that !  Everywhere  it  is  possible  to  feel  joy, 
even  in  the  most  cruel  and  terrible  things.  Don't  you  think  that 
there  was  joy  in  dungeons,  pillories;  in  martyrdom  and  suflPerings 
that  there  was  no  joy.f*  Don't  you  tkink  that  they  who  died  for  their 
faith  at  the  stake  or  in  torture  chambers,  that  they  felt  no  joy  in  such 
dying?  And  don't  you  know  that  our  more  common  heroes  who  will- 
ingly castigate  their  bodies,  lie  down  alone  in  coffins,  condemn  them- 
selves voluntarily  to  exile  and  solitude  —  don't  you  think  that  they 
find  passionate  pleasure  in  it?  No  matter  what  we  do,  it  can  be 
beautiful  and  joyful,  but  it  must  originate  from  our  will,  from  our 
innermost  conviction,  from  the  needs  of  our  passions,  from  our  entire 
self,  from  our  soul. 


436  THE   CLOUDS 

Petr  {overcome  by  her  eloquence,  puts  his  hand  to  his  hrow). —  All 
this  I  have  never  known. 

Maya  {leans  back  against  the  wall  and  looks  upward  to  the  sky). — 
See  how  those  clouds  travel  along!  Great,  airy,  free,  joyful.  Some- 
thing carries  them  along,  something  unknown,  invisible,  perhaps 
the  vehement  currents  of  those  high  spheres,  perhaps  their  own  pas- 
sion for  the  setting  sun,  or  perhaps  only  the  mood  and  poetic  spirit 
of  this  day.  How  freely  and  undauntedly  they  journey  on !  Without 
a  will  of  their  own  and  yet  so  free,  unencumbered,  unfettered  by 
either  earth  or  heaven.  I  often  feel  that  I  am  floating  on  like  those 
clouds.  High  up  above  the  earth,  illumined,  sunkissed.  And  the 
earth  deep  down,  deep  under  me.  In  that  distance  the  earth  looks 
so  friendly,  peaceful,  dumb.  Here  on  earth  there  might  be  happiness, 
but  up  above  there  is  joy,  there  is  light  —  light  even  long  after  sunset 
—  and  probably  death  there  would  be  sweet,  beautiful.  Can  you 
see.? 

Petr  {from  his  depths). —  I  see.     {Silence.) 

Maya  {first  to  rouse  herself). —  But  I  am  babbling  again.  It 
looks  like  foolishness,  doesn't  it.? 

Petr. —  Ach,  no,  Miss.  I  could  listen  to  you  forever  and  forever. 
I  am  so  dull,  I  really  ought  to  answer  you  somehow  —  I  feel  it  — 
but  look!     It  was  not  given  to  me. 

Maya. —  Don't  be  surprised  at  me,  Mr.  Petr.  After  so  many 
years  we  meet  each  other  and  I  feel  now  just  as  if  I  were  returning 
from  some  very  distant  place  —  home.  See,  I  very  seldom  have 
confessed  myself  so  truly  and  voluntarily  to  any  one  as  I  have  to-day. 

Petr  {still  looking  at  the  clouds). —  It  was  beautiful. 

{Silence.) 

Kocianova  {comes  out  of  the  house). —  So,  Miss,  if  you  please,  have 
something  to  eat  with  us.  It  is  just  a  bite.  By  the  time  you  could 
reach  Breskovitz  you  would  be  pretty  hungry.  The  doctor  will  wait. 
He  can  join  us  at  the  table  when  he  comes. 

Maya. —  Mr.  Petr  and  I  have  been  talking  the  time  away. 

Kocianova. —  You  must  come  to  see  us  oftener,  since  you  are  in 
the  neighborhood. 

Maya. —  Ah,  surely  I'll  come.  But  you  did  not  have  to  go  to 
all  this  trouble,  Mrs.  Kocianova. 

Kocianova. —  How  you  talk,  child.     Come,  come. 

Maya  {on  the  threshold). —  Well,  since  I  must.      {Goes  in.) 

Kocianova   {goes  after  her,  but  returns). —  And  how  about  you, 


JAROSLAV  KVAPIL  437 

Petrlchek,  aren't  you  coming  with  the  young  lady? 
Petr  {is  gazing  at  the  sky,  he  does  not  answer) . 
Kocianova, —  Well,  come,  come.     What  are  you  looking  at  so? 
Petr. —  I  am  looking  at  those  clouds. 

ACT   II 

Same  Scene.     Towards  evening. 

Petr  {coming  out  of  the  parsonage  with  Dr.  Votava). —  So  really, 
doctor,  it  is  nothing  serious  ? 

Votava. —  You  get  frightened  too  easily,  my  friend.  By  the 
postal  you  wrote,  I  thought,  God  knows  what's  happened.  Your 
mother  got  a  bit  strained  during  the" harvesting,  or  probably  she  ate 
something  that  did  not  quite  agree  with  her.  Let  her  rest  nicely 
for  a  day  or  two  and  she  will  be  all  right.  Don't  bother  —  at  her  age 
every  little  indisposition  looks  serious. 

Petr. —  Thank  the  Lord !  But  in  the  afternoon  she  had  a  pretty 
high  fever.  I  was  afraid  that  it  might  be  typhus  or  something 
similar.     Forgive  us,  doctor,  that  we  troubled  you  so. 

Votava. —  Ah,  what  of  that!  I  am  quite  used  to  these  sudden 
messages.  But  poor  Miss  Zemanova,  she  got  so  frightened.  She 
just  came  down  to  take  a  little  walk  with  my  wife,  and  as  soon  as  she 
heard  about  yout  mother's  illness  she  persisted  in  coming  along  with 
me. 

Petr. —  Good  soul. 

Votava. —  Really  she  is  an  excellent  person.  Only  last  night 
when  we  were  coming  from  here  did  I  learn  what  a  fine  woman  she 
is.  {Nodding.)  Yes,  she  is  a  splendid  woman.  My  wife  is  very 
fond  of  her. 

Petr. —  And  maminka — she  was  so  glad  that  Miss  Zemanova 
came  with  you. 

Votava. —  Yes,  yes,  and  gladness  is  often  better  than  all  drugs, 
my  friend.  {Looking  at  his  watch.)  Well,  as  long  as  it  is  nothing 
worse,  let  maminka  chat  with  the  young  lady  for  a  while;  I  will 
take  a  ride  to  Pravovitz  yet,  and  in  an  hour  or  so  I'll  be  here  again. 
But  don't  let  your  mother  do  much  talking,  rather  let  your  guest 
entertain  her.     Better  if  she  fell  asleep. 

Matoush  {comes  out  of  the  house) . 

Votava. —  Well,  reverend  sir,  I'll  be  on  my  way  again.  And 
don't  worry.     It  is  nothing  serious.     Quiet  and  rest  is  all  that  is 


438  THE   CLOUDS 

needed  and  she  will  be  all  right  again.  What  would  you  have? 
She  is  not  a  girl  any  longer,  and  she  is  still  all  hustle  and  bustle. 

Matoush. —  Well,  she  feels  much  better  than  she  did  before 
Miss  Preisova  came.     Has  she  a  fever  .^ 

Votava. —  Hardly  any.  Thirty-seven  six — in  the  morning  it  will 
be  normal  again. 

Maya  {in  the  doorway). —  If  you  please,  Mr.  Petr,  have  you 
some  fresh  water  .^     Maminka  would  like  a  drink. 

Petr. —  Immediately,  immediately.  {Hurries  into  the  house; 
both  exeunt?) 

Matoush. —  That  will  not  harm  her. 

Votava. —  Ah,  let  her  drink.  She  ought  not  to  get  up  to-morrow, 
though.  I  will  be  here  to-morrow  morning  or  in  the  afternoon;  I 
have  two  patients  in  Pravovitz  and  so  I  shall  have  to  pass  here 
anyhow. 

Matoush. —  Did  Petr  complain  to  you,  doctor.^ 

Votava. —  Why,  is  he  also  sick.^ 

Matoush. —  For  about  two  days  he  has  been  complaining  of 
headache.  Maybe  it  comes  from  the  heat.  But  somehow  or  other 
he  seems  changed  a  little.  He  is  so  excitable  lately,  and  he  was  not 
so  before. 

Votava. —  Ach.     That  will  pass. 

Matoush. —  If  it  is  only  not  some  inner  discontent!  In  a  few 
weeks  he  will  be  going  about  again,  and  I  would  dread  any  difficulties 
for  him  in  his  last  year.  God  be  my  witness,  doctor!  Urge  him  to 
enter  the  seminary.-*  On  the  contrary,  I  told  him  to  think  it  over 
seriously.  Even  the  other  day.  But  the  boy,  it  seemed,  was  quite 
reconciled  to  his  fate. 

Votava. —  Well,  if  it  did  not  explode  until  now,  I  don't  think 
it  will  explode.     If  he  was  twenty  years  old  it  would  perhaps  be 

serious,  but  as  it  is Besides,  he  was  brought  up  on  that.     Since 

his  early  years  he  has  heard  what  he  was  going  to  be,  and  your  life 
course  undoubtedly  was  a  fit  precedent  for  him,  so  that  he  was  not 
likely  to  strive  for  anything  else.  I  do  not  believe  in  these  sudden 
changes.  {Again  looking  at  his  watch?)  But,  reverend  sir,  hora  ruit. 
It  is  already  half  past  seven  and  I  wanted  to  see  some  one  in  Pravovitz. 

Maya  {coming  out  oj  the  parsonage). 

Votava. —  We  have  stayed  here  too  long.  Miss,  and  I  have  to 
go  to  Pravovitz  yet.     It  will  be  dark  before  we'll  get  home. 

Maya  {jolly). — Ah,  for  my  part — as  long  as  you  will  give  me  a  ride ! 


JAROSLAV   KVAPIL  439 

Votava. —  Of  course  I  will.  But  you  will  have  to  wait  for  me. 
Or  would  you  rather  come  with  me  now.? 

Maya. —  You  will  be  passing  here  anyway,  will  you  not.'' 

Votava. —  Certainly.     I  never  go  a  different  way. 

Maya. —  Then  I  would  rather  wait  here  for  you.  May  I, 
reverend  sir.'*     I  like  it  here  so  much. 

Matoush. —  Where  else  would  you  be  going,  Miss  Maya  .>*  You 
can  have  supper  with  us  and  the  doctor  will  be  back  by  that  time. 

Votava  {to  Maya). —  And  how  is  your  patient  getting  along.? 

Maya. —  She  fell  asleep.  That's  why  I  came  out.  That 
window.?     Ought  I  not  shut  it.? 

Votava. —  No.  Fresh  air  will  not  harm  her.  At  night  you  may 
shut  it.  So  please  have  patience,  Miss  Maya.  I'll  be  back  soon. 
Au  revoir.      {Going  away.) 

Matoush  {escorts  him). —  Well,  I  am  so  much  obliged  to  you, 
doctor.  {Returning.)  You  are  a  good  girl.  Miss  Maya,  to  come  to 
see  us.     You  have  given  my  sister  much  pleasure,  and  me,  too. 

Maya. —  I  would  have  come  sooner,  but  I  did  not  want  to  be 
forward.  It  is  so  beautiful  here,  so  quiet;  believe  me,  I  like  it 
here  even  better  than  I  did  years  ago.  I  will  be  longing  for  this 
place  in  Prague.     I  am  going  Saturday,  you  know. 

Matoush. —  Already.? 

Maya. —  Ach,  yes,  yes, —  the  holidays  are  over.  Next  Monday 
I  will  be  playing  again.  It  will  all  start  again  —  and  God  only 
knows  what  will  happen  in  a  year.  {After  a  while.)  Do  you  know, 
reverend  sir,  that  I  am  beginning  to  envy  you  ? 

Matoush. —  Me.? 

Maya. —  Yes,  all  of  you.  That  is,  at  least,  you  and  Mrs.  Kocia- 
nova.     I  probably  feel  sorry  for  Petr. 

Matoush  {attentive). —  Did  he  complain  to  you.? 

Maya. —  Mr.  Petr.?  What  an  idea!  I  don't  believe  he  would 
ever  complain  to  any  one  even  if  something  should  oppress  him. 
He  is  so  self  contained.  And,  anyway,  how  could  he.?  This  is 
only  the  second  time  that  I  have  been  here.  The  other  day  we  did 
not  do  much  talking  and  to-day  there  was  no  time  for  it. 

Matoush. —  I  was  just  telling  the  doctor  that  he  has  changed 
suddenly.*     {Pointing  to  the  parsonage.)     He  is  by  his  mother.? 

Maya. —  Yes.  We  did  not  want  to  talk  there  because  she  was 
falling  asleep.  And  he  stayed  inside.  {After  a  while.)  He  loves  his 
mother  verv  much,  does  he  not.? 


440  THE   CLOUDS 

Matoush. —  He  does.  He  is  too  good  a  son.  If  he  only  were  not 
so  taciturn.     If  he  were  just  a  little  more  energetic. 

Maya. —  He  is  going  to  be  a  priest  —  what  good  would  energy 
be  to  him.'' 

Matoush. —  And  do  you  think  that  energy  does  not  befit  a  priest.? 
That  is  probably  because  our  calling  seems  to  you  nothing  else  but 
self  denial.  But,  ach,  let  me  tell  you,  Miss,  that  it  is  just  this  self 
denial  which  requires  at  times  lots  of  energy.  It  is  just  in  self  denial 
that  we  must  have  a  strong  will,  so  that  it  may  safely  and  surely  last 
throughout  our  life.  Under  the  external,  apparent  resignation  and 
self  denial,  there  must  be  a  strong,  iron  will,  there  must  be  an  inherent 
internal  strength,  enough  to  control  the  entire  being,  to  dictate  to  it. 

Maya. —  To  control  the  whole  being.  You  are  right,  sir.  Even 
I  knew  how  to  act  with  the  entire  vehemence  of  my  will  power,  when 
necessity  called  for  it.  When,  many  years  ago,  I  wanted  to  be  a 
teacher,  I  buried  myself  in  hooks  with  great  passion,  and  when  my 
father's  death  put  an  end  to  all  my  plans,  and  I  was  frightened  and 
tired  of  life,  I  sought  nothing  but  an  asylum,  a  refuge  where  I  could 
devote  my  entire  youthful  energy  to  resignation.  I  told  you  how 
at  that  time  I  knocked  at  the  portals  of  the  convent.  But  as  soon  as 
I  breathed  the  atmosphere  of  the  theater  I  gave  myself  up  to  it, 
without  hesitation,  happy  or  unhappy,  but  entirely,  just  as  if  nothing 
else  existed  in  this  world.      {Silence.) 

Matoush. — You  ought  to  be  happy  that  life  took  you  where  you  are. 

Maya. —  I  think  that  my  life  would  have  blossomed  forth  even  in 
other  surroundings.  Because  life  to  me  is  a  magnificent,  wholesome 
joy.*  But  do  not  think,  father,  that  because  of  these  things  I  am 
frivolous.  On  the  contrary, —  my  conscience  usually  is  even  painfully 
sensitive.  But  my  profession  has  taught  me  to  understand  the  mani- 
fold features  of  our  daily  life.  Something  beautifully  adventurous 
I  inherited  from  my  father.  Even  in  him  there  was  the  blood  of  an 
adventurer,  even  though  the .  traditions  and  conventionality  of 
bourgeois  life  got  the  best  of  him.  But  I  am  a  bit  more  of  my  own 
making.  Ten  years  of  life  on  the  stage  gave  me  much  more  training 
than  all  my  former  home  and  school  education.  I  know  the  art  of 
being  happy,  the  art  of  intoxicating  myself  with  everything  and  any- 
thing —  to-day  with  a  great  work  of  art,  to-morrow  with  a  mere 
memory;  to-day  with  a  dead  faded  flower,  which  I  had  put  in  a 
book  years  ago  when  there  was  spring  and  sunshine,  to-morrow, 
probably  with  some  sudden  and  most  sorrowful  calamity. 


JAROSLAV   KVAPIL  441 

Matoush. —  How  many  people  would  envy  you ! 

Maya. —  Do  you  think  so?  {Lost  in  thought.)  At  that  time 
when  my  father  lost  his  life,  I  was  heartbroken,  crazily  grief  stricken. 
One  cannot  wonder.  My  father  was  everything  to  me.  I  arrived 
in.  Skalitz  as  if  I  were  in  a  trance.  I  don't  know  how  I  ever  got  to 
the  railway  station  or  into  the  train,  and  how  I  passed  those  few 
hours  before  I  reached  my  father's  deathbed.  When  I  got  there 
he  was  dead.  But  all  of  a  sudden  —  I  blushed  when  I  caught 
myself  —  I  was  studying  my  great  sorrow,  analyzing  it.  I  was,  I 
would  say,  tracing  the  psychology  of  my  pain.  I  wanted  to  gain 
from  every  moment  of  its  duration  each  one  of  its  pangs.  I  would 
almost  say  that  I  was  glad  of  my  grief,  as  of  something  rare  and  un- 
usual, perhaps  in  the  same  way  as  a  doctor  has  a  keen,  scientific 
pleasure  from  even  the  most  painful  case.  See,  already  then,  at  that 
time,  I  felt  the  actress  within  me.  Not  a  comedian,  who  plays  for 
the  gaud  of  costumes  or  the  empty  applause  of  a  helter-skelter  mob, 
but  an  artist  able  to  conceive  and  produce  every  and  all  pathos, 
passion,  and  pain  of  human  nature.  And  so  it  was  when  I  came  to 
you  the  other  day,  reverend  sir.  Hardly  had  I  been  a  moment  in 
your  vicinity  when  all  the  poetry  of  my  childhood  echoed  in  my  soul. 
I  wanted  to  go  back,  at  least  in  my  memories  and  sentiments,  al- 
though I  did  not  know  whether  I  would  meet  with  yours.  I  came 
to  you  the  other  day  just  like  a  bird  of  prey,  and  when  I  went  away 
that  evening  I  felt  as  if  I  was  carrying  off  a  new  booty.  {Lighter 
tone.)     Good  God,  what  a  cruel  person  I  am! 

Matoush. —  What  a  difference  in  young  souls.  You  and  Petr, 
both  of  the  same  age.  Are  you  the  real  personification  of  our  yoiith, 
or  is  it  our  Petr,  who  is  so  resigned,  so  willingly  humble,  so  peculiarly 
indifferent. 

Maya. —  Was  it  inevitable  that  he  should  become  a  priest.'* 

Matoush  {shrugs  his  shoulders). —  It  was  and  it  was  not  —  hard 
to  say!  Perhaps  it  was  not  inevitable,  even  though  his  mother's 
wishes  were  so  positive  and  sworn.  Lord!  Lord!  I  often  think 
that  all  depended  upon  him.  If  at  that  time  he  had  rebelled  against 
our  wishes,  especially  against  his  mother's.  Perhaps  it  would  have 
been  otherwise.  Well,  His  Will  be  done.  {After  a  pause.)  Be- 
sides, do  understand  me,  Miss  Zemanova,  I  am  not  pitying 
Petr  just  because  he  will  become  a  priest.  I  feel  sorry  for  him 
because  he  devoted  himself  to  this  calling  so  indifferently,  just  as  if 
he  would  have  devoted  himself  to  any  other  calling  in  a  similar  way. 


442  THE   CLOUDS 

{Plaintively.)  Without  enthusiasm,  just  as  if  he  had  never  been 
young.  {He  remains  silent  for  a  while,  and  then  speaks  again  with 
increasing  warmth.)  Youth  to  me  appears  Hke  a  bright,  glowing 
flame  which  heats  up  to  the  utmost  all  human  feelings.  A  young  soul 
should  be  such  a  white  glowing  matter  which  is  hardly  restrained 
by  its  surroundings.  It  ought  not  to  cool  off  until  life  itself  creates 
a  hard  mold  for  it,  into  which  it  pours  with  vehemence  and  heat.  And 
it  does  not  matter,  later  on  in  life,  what  the  form  of  this  once  glowing 
metal  is;  whether  it  is  a  pagan  idol  or  a  consecrated  bell,  as  long  as 
it  is  inherently  pure,  intact,  and  without  a  blemish.  {Sighs.)  But 
where  is  that  warm  youth  of  Petr's-f* 

Maya. —  Perhaps  he  never  was  different.  Perhaps  he  was 
born  so. 

Matoush. —  Ach  no,  no.  Don't  you  remember  what  a  wild 
fellow  and  fighter  Petr  was  in  his  early  days  and  what  a  timid,  bashful 
little  girl  you  were.  What  if  Petr's  life  just  like  his  studies  were 
delayed  in  their  course.^  And  what  if  the  hot  noon  of  his  life  has  not 
yet  arrived.?     {After  a  while.)     And  it  is  too  late  already. 

Maya. —  Really  is  it  too  late.? 

Matoush. —  How  should  it  not  be.?  What  could  he  begin  now, 
even  now,  when  he  is  not  yet  consecrated.?  He  is  almost  twenty- 
eight.  Should  he  start  a  new  course  of  studies.?  Or  should  he  become 
a  starving  substitute  teacher  in  a  country  school  or  a  petty  civil 
official.?  And  would  not  that  be  the  same  thing.?  Especially  for  a 
poor  fighter  as  he  is  —  without  ambition. 

Maya. —  Surely,  then,  you  are  worrying  yourself  for  nothing. 

Matoush. —  Well,  we  are  only  talking  about  it.  Every  one  of 
your  words  urges  me  on  to  new  thoughts.  Much  that  I  felt  indis- 
tinctly became  clear  to  me  at  that  moment  when  again  I  knew  you. 
It  seems  to  me  now  that  it  is  a  fatal  deception,  when  it  is  said  that  we 
old  ones  are  entitled  to  obedience  and  concessions  from  the  younger 
generations.  Not  we  —  but  youth  is  right.  Its  demands  may  be 
but  its  own  and  to  us  entirely  new  and  strange  ones.  But  even  if 
youth  is  not  logical,  it  has  a  far  greater  claim  to  life  than  we  who  are 
growing  older  and  more  superfluous  every  day.  Youth  should  desire 
and  demand,  because  it  wants  for  itself  and  for  the  future  —  and  we 
ought  to  concede.  We  ought  to  concede,  no  matter  how  holy  or 
important  our  aims  may  be,  and  youth  ought  to  demand;  it  ought 
to  have  a  will,  even  though  it  is  a  spiteful  one,  youth  can  even  be  reck- 
less, at  least  more  so  than  we.   {Plaintively.)  Why  was  not  Petr  such? 


JAROSLAV   KVAPIL  443 

Maya  {decisively). —  Ach  well,  reverend  sir,  you  yourself  said 
that  it  is  too  late.  Petr's  life  is  already  cooling  and  forming  into  a " 
consecrated  bell.  Let  us  drop  these  thoughts.  It  is  not  given  to 
Petr  to  be  different,  so  let  us  at  least  wish  him  perfect  peace  in  his 
even  though  joyless  life.  Perhaps  a  time  will  come  when  even  I  will 
envy  him. 

Matoush. —  You.? 

Maya. —  Perhaps  it  is  a  mere  reaction  —  but  I  do  not  resist. 
Perhaps  it  is  frivolous.  But  grant  me  that  pleasure.  In  a  few  days 
everything  will  be  ended,  anyway.  And  then  I  will  long  for  this 
moment, —  in  my  spare  time, —  and  I  will  say  to  myself  that  to-day 
was  a  holy  moment  of  my  life. 

Matoush. —  Really.'' 

Maya. —  Yes  —  and  for  all  that  I  wish  to  thank  you,  reverend 
sir,  most  cordially.      {Gives  him  her  hand.) 

Petr  {coming  out  of  the  house). 

Matoush. —  How  is  maminka.'' 

Petr. —  She  is  sleeping  quietly  and  her  breath  is  regular.  Thank 
God!  I  watched  her  for  a  long  time.  The  poor  thing.  I  only 
hope  that  she  will  be  well  to-morrow. 

Maya. —  Of  course  she  will.  You  will  see  how  happy  she  will 
be  when  she  wakes  up  to-morrow  morning. 

Petr. —  Are  we  not  going  to  supper,  uncle.?  Barushka  is  getting 
it  ready  alone. 

Matoush. —  Let  her  get  it  ready  before  the  doctor  comes  back  for 
Miss  Zemanova.  {Looks  at  his  watch.)  Well,  there  is  no  hurry. 
He  hardly  has  reached  Pravovitz  yet.  {Sincerely.)  See,  Miss  Maya, 
one  does  not  know  what  to  choose.  There!  Take  a  doctor.  Every 
one  thinks  a  doctor  is  what  not.?  But  what  does  such  a  country 
doctor  amount  to.  Dr.  Votava  complains  quite  often,  does  he  not, 
Petr.? 

Petr. —  Of  course,  a  country  doctor.  But  a  doctor  in  a  city,  in 
Prague,  for  instance,  there  is  no  comparison.  My  friend  Breicha, 
do  you  know  him,  uncle,  from  Chernikow,  he  is  already  a  privat- 
docent.  He  graduated  from  the  gymnasium  some  years  before  I  did, 
to  be  sure,  but  he  is  no  older  than  I  am. 

Matoush  {somewhat  surprised). —  Surely,  surely,  my  dear  fellow, 
but  not  all  the  doctors  can  be  privatdocents.  Among  my  school- 
mates one  is  already  a  bishop,  and  from  my  class  many  have  become 
deans,  archdeans,  and  canons.     Well!   and  I  am  a  parson  in  Luschitz 


444  THE   CLOUDS 

and  never  will  become  anything  greater  or  more. 

Petr. —  It  all  depends  on  luck. 

Matoush. —  And  on  a  number  of  other  things,  old  chap.  {With  a 
smile.)  Well,  Petr,  let  us  hope  that  more  will  be  allotted  to  you  than  a 
small  country  parsonage. 

Petr  {with  a  sigh). —  Easily  said. 

Maya. —  Oh  no,  Mr.  Petr,  one  must  have  a  will. 

Petr  {carelessly). —  Perhaps. 

Matoush  {with  certainty). —  Well,  let  bygones  be  bygones.  Do 
not  lose  any  sleep  over  it.  Why,  Petr,  you  have  never  complained 
before.  {Searchingly.)  And  how  about  your  health }  Have  you  still 
that  headache.^ 

Maya  {interested). —  Why,  have  you  headache .f' 

Petr. —  Yes,  it  aches  and  aches.  In  those  worries  about  ma- 
minka  it  stopped  a  bit,  but  now  it  is  beginning  again. 

Matoush. —  Well,  so  it  is.  {To  Maya.)  In  his  young  days  he 
often  complained  of  headaches,  but  he  has  had  no  trouble  now  for 
years.     Is  it  not  so.? 

Petr  {somewhat  impatiently). —  Well,  I  am  not  complaining.  Man 
was  born  to  suffer. 

Matoush. — And  at  the  end  of  ends  all  suffering  will  cease.  {Changing 
the  subject.)  Well,  Petrichek,  take  Miss  Zemanova  into  the  hall  and 
have  your  supper  before  I  am  back.  {To  Maya.)  I  always  take  a 
walk  before  supper.  Just  through  this  alley  here  into  the  woods. 
{Laughing.)  My  constitutional.  {Giving  her  his  hand.)  I  will  not 
say  good  by,  because  I  think  that  I  will  be  back  in  time.  Maybe  I 
will  be  back  in  time.  Maybe  I  will  meet  Dr.  Votava  and  we  will 
come  back  together.  So  au  revoir,  Miss,  and  you,  Petr,  send  Barushka 
for  some  beer  for  the  young  lady  when  your  supper  is  ready.  {Goes 
out.) 

Maya. —  Au  revoir,  reverend  sir.      {Silence.) 

Maya. —  I  wonder,  Mr.  Petr,  if  you  have  ever  experienced  how 
many  a  trifling  recollection  of  our  childhood  returns  to  our  memory, 
if  after  years  we  visit  the  places  where  we  used  to  live.'* 

Petr. —  My  life  had  no  extensive  changes.  Miss.  I  was  born 
here,  here  I  grew  up,  and  here  I  return  many  times  every  year. 
Everything  here  occurs  with  the  same  monotonous  regularity,  year 
in  and  year  out.     Until  now  I  have  never  been  in  any  other  place. 

Maya. —  It  is  truly  remarkable  how  short  the  time  seems  to  be 
when  we  come  to  remember  some  particular  trifle  after  years.     For 


JAROSLAV   KVAPIL  445 

instance,  in  the  reverend  father's  room  behind  the  crucifix  are  those 
palm  leaves  from  last  Palm  Sunday,  just  as  they  were  years  ago.  I 
never  thought  of  those  palm  leaves  or  that  crucifix  at  all,  but  as  soon 
as  I  saw  it,  I  immediately  remembered  a  funny  incident,  and  it  seemed 
to  me  that  it  must  have  happened  but  recently. 

Petr. —  And  what  was  that,  please.^ 

Maya. —  You  will  laugh  when  I  tell  you.  You  once  told  me 
that  these  consecrated  palm  leaves  were  awfully  healthy  and  that  we 
ought  to  eat  them  to  keep  well.  And  you  started  to  climb  for  them 
right  then  and  there.  I  was  helping  you  and  in  our  hurry  we  broke 
a  little  box  which  your  uncle  had  as  a  keepsake  and  then  we  got  it, — 
both  of  us  —  I  can  tell  you. 

Petr  {with  a  smile) . —  Really  t 

Maya  {nodding). —  And  after  we  were  punished,  you  said  all  of  a 
sudden:  "Well,  only  wait,  Marenka,  wait  until  I  grow  up  and  marry 
you,  then  I  would  not  let  any  one  harm  you." 

Petr  {extremely  embarrassed). —  I  said  that.^ 

Maya. —  I  hope  that  you  are  not  angry  with  me  for  having  spoken 
of  it.f'     Tell  me,  is  it  possible  that  it  was  so  long  ago? 

Petr  {suddenly). —  And  Miss  Maya,  why  do  you  remind  me  of  all 
these  things  now.^" 

Maya  {surprised). —  Ach.  Forgive  me.  I  never  for  a  moment 
thought  that  it  would  have  a  different  effect  upon  you  than  as  a  mere 
foolish  memory  of  childhood.  Pardon  me  for  that  —  you  are  a  priest, 
and  to  you  such  recollections,  even  though  ever  so  innocent,  seem 
sinful  and  undignified. 

Petr  {quickly). —  But,  no,  no!  That  would  be  foolish  on  my 
part,  if  such  trifling  thought  impressed  me  in  that  way. 

Maya. —  Still  it  seems  that  I  should  not  have  spoken  about  it. 

Petr  {quietly). —  You  should  not  have. 

Maya. —  And  why.^* 

Petr. — Because  it  hurts  me.  {Quickly  changing  the  subject.) 
But  quite  diiferently  than  you  would  think.  The  life  that  I  have  led 
hitherto  hurts  me  as  it  never  has  before. 

Maya  {sincerely). —  Life  hurts  every  one,  my  friend. 

Petr. —  Ach.  No,  no.  Miss  Maya,  it  does  not  hurt  you.  To  you 
it  has  fulfilled  itself  so  richly  and  beautifully,  it  gave  you  even  more 
than  you  yourself  wanted,  and  to  me  it  did  not  even  give  that  modest 
little  I  longed  for. 

Maya. —  You  told  me  yourself  the  other  day  that  you  would 


446  THE   CLOUDS 

gladly  become  a  priest.     Even  if  only  for  your  mother's  sake. 

Petr. —  Ach.  I  am  not  speaking  of  that.  And  please  don't  let 
us  talk  about  it  at  all.  What  good  is  it.^  Those  few  strange  wishes 
and  ambitions  which  I  had  to  renounce  when  I  entered  the  seminary 
have  long  since  been  regretted.  Anyway,  they  were  so  modest  that 
they  were  hardly  worth  while.  Listen  to  me:  My  present  life,  from 
my  earliest  years  until  to-day,  that  petty,  monotonous,  down- 
trodden life  has  begun  to  hurt  me  —  that  life  for  which  I  was  brought 
up  and  which  could  not  have  ended  differently  than  it's  ending  now. 

Maya. —  And  have  you  never  thought  of  that  before.'' 

Petr. —  Never.     Not  until  now. 

Maya. —  Why.f*  Your  uncle  did  not  urge  you  to  enter  the 
seminary! 

Petr. —  Who  told  you  that? 

Maya. —  He  himself. 

Petr. —  And  why  did  you  talk  about  it.^ 

Maya. —  Well,  just  so  — why  are  you  looking  at  me  in  that  way? 
I  was  asking  Father  Matoush  if  you  were  happy. 

Petr. —  Happy!     Does  any  one  care  about  that? 

Maya. —  Perhaps  no  one.  But  some  people  still  might.  Your 
mother 

Petr. —  Yes,  yes,  my  mother,  she  verily  believes  that  I  am  happy. 

Maya. —  And  you  said  the  other  day  that  her  belief  was  sufficient. 

Petr. —  It  was  until  lately. 

Maya. —  And  your  uncle  cares  about  it,  also. 

Petr. —  Yes,  yes,  it  is  for  their  sake  that  I  have  become  what  I  am. 
Anyway,  I  do  not  live  for  any  one  else  in  this  world. 

Maya. —  Of  course.     Besides  those  two  you  have  no  one. 

Petr. —  So  why  insist  upon  thinking  about  it  at  all? 

Maya. —  I  understand  you.  You  mean,  why  should  I  care  to 
insist  upon  thinking  about  it. 

Petr  {quickly). —  Pardon  me.  Miss,  but  I  did  not  mean  it  in  that 
way. 

Maya. —  I  know  that  you  did  not  mean  to  offend  me.  But 
really,  I  ought  not  to  disturb  you  with  my  sympathy. 

Petr. —  But  no,  Miss  Maya.  I  thank  you  very  much  for  the 
interest  you  take  in  me. 

Maya. —  Do  you  believe  that  it  is  sincere? 

Petr.— I  do. 

{Quiet.     It  is  growing  dark.) 


JAROSLAV   KVAPIL  447 

Maya  {after  a  zvhile). — Tell  me,  Mr.  Petr,  but  sincerely,  what  do 
you  think  of  me  ? 

Petr. —  You  ?     How  do  you  mean  ? 

Maya. —  Do  you  really  still  regard  me  as  a  friend  of  childhood 
days  ? 

Petr. —  Can  I,  to-day?  We  are  already  so  distant  from  each 
other. 

Maya. —  Perhaps  I  am  to  you.  And  I  can  well  understand  that. 
It  cannot  be  otherwise.  Why,  I  have  changed  much  more  than  you 
did.  At  least,  in  appearance.  And  just  because  you  did  not  have 
to  absent  yourself  from  your  childhood,  you  are  even  to-day  much 
nearer  to  me  than  you  know. 

P^/r.— Really.? 

'Maya. —  Yes,  really.  And  therefore  do  not  think  ill  of  me 
because  a  little  while  ago  I  interested  myself  in  your  happiness  and 
cared  just  as  much  about  it  as  your  mother  or  your  uncle. 

Petr. —  Miss 

Maya. —  Yes,  and  I  am  as  fond  of  you  to-day  as  I  was  in  our 
childhood  days.  We  are  mature  people  —  our  ways  parted  long  ago 
and  will  never  meet  again.     Why  should  we  not  talk  freely? 

Petr  {disturbed). —  And  will  never  meet  again. 

Maya. —  But  friends  we  will  remain,  would  we  not?  Friends 
we  were  always  and  continuously,  although  we  did  not  see  each  other 
for  years.  And  I  am  grateful  to  you  for  the  most  pleasant  memories 
of  my  childhood,  and  now  when  I  leave  here,  I  will  be  grateful  to  you 
for  this. 

Petr. —  Grateful  to  me  ?     And  for  what  ? 

Maya. —  Perhaps  only  for  just  this  moment.  Because  it  is  so  rich 
for  me,  it  reflects  so  beautifully  in  my  soul,  in  a  way  which  you  cannot 
understand.  For  many  long  years  I  have  not  known  such  calmness  and 
rest.  And  that  gives  me  to-day  as  much  pleasure  as  the  most  diffi- 
cult task.  I  give  myself  up  to  it,  I  give  myself  up  to  it  entirely,  my 
friend,  and  I  am  glad  that  I  have  some  one  to  whom  I  can  tell  all 
these  things. 

Petr  {suddenly). —  Miss  Maya,  you  don't  know  how  happy  you 
make  me  by  these  words.  Even  though  I  am  suffering  so  much,  you 
make  me  happy  by  these  words. 

Maya. —  But,  Mr.  Petr!  Do  understand  me.  I  did  not  mean 
to  disturb  you  with  my  sincerity.  I  did  not  want  my  happiness  at 
such  a  high  price.     I  thought  that  you  would  be  able  to  understand 


448  THE   CLOUDS 

me  with  the  same  pleasure  as  I  feel  in  your  house.     But  now  I  see 
that  you  are  beginning  to  suffer  while  I  am  enjoying  myself. 

Petr  {feverishly). —  Yes,  I  am  suffering,  suffering  terribly.  But 
it  is  impossible  that  it  should  be  different.  My  suffering  was  not 
caused  by  your  present  words;  I  have  been  suffering  ever  since  that 
moment  when  we  stood  here  all  alone  in  the  courtyard  and  you  spoke 
so  beautifully  and  wonderfully  about  your  life.  Why  deny  it.?  You 
have  brought  me  resurrection  and  freedom. 

Maya  {with  consternation). —  God  Almighty!  What  do  you 
mean,  Mr.  Petr.?  For  nothing  in  the  world  would  I  want  to  leave 
here  with  the  knowledge  that  I  have  destroyed  the  peace  of  your  soul.^ 

Petr. —  Why,  I  am  but  thankful  to  you  for  it,  but  thankful. 
Let  it  pain,  let  it  burn;  it  is,  anyway,  only  for  a  moment.  Like  those 
clouds  that  are  traveling  high  up  there  above  our  heads.  You  yourself 
spoke  about  them. 

Maya  {lost  in  dreams). —  Like  the  clouds.     My  clouds. 

Petr. —  And  you  have  followed  them  all  your  life,  while  I  only 
dared  modestly  to  stare  at  the  ground.  Always  down  bent,  always 
humble.  While  they  kept  on  traveling  by  day  and  night.  Full  of 
meaning  for  every  one  in  the  world  —  except  for  me. 

Maya. —  It  is  too  late,  my  friend.  You  would  not  know  how  to 
follow  them  now.  We  are  different,  Petr,  both  of  us.  We  are 
something  else  than  we  used  to  be. 

Petr. —  And  so  you  think  that  I  have  lost  all,  that  I  have  been 
robbed  of  everything.? 

Maya. —  Yes. 

Petr. —  Can  you  not  believe  me.? 

Maya. —  And  what.? 

Petr. —  That  I  am  not  such  as  you  all  think  me.  That  every- 
thing has  not  yet  been  trodden  down  within  me  —  that  I  still  live. 
My  life  is  not  yet  gone.  That  it  is  still  possible  for  me  to  change, 
that  for  me  everything  in  this  world  can  change  yet. 

Maya  {firmly). —  I  don't  believe  it. 

Petr. —  Shall  I  prove  it.? 

Maya  {quickly  takes  his  hands). —  No,  no,  no  —  You  must  not, 
Petr,  for  God's  sake,  promise  me  that  you  will  do  nothing  so  rash. 

Petr  {bitterly). —  I  thought  you  did  not  believe  me. 

Maya. —  That  is  just  why,  I  want  you  to  promise  me  that. 
I  could  believe  in  your  vital  strength;  if  I  believed  in  impossibili 
would  say  to  you:   "Yes,  you  are  right.     Revolt."     I  would  say 


at.     If|-» 

lities,  l\\ 
ly  that)  J 


JAROSLAV   KVALIP  449 

although  I  would  know  what  havoc  I  should  cause  within  your  inner 
life.  I  would  say  it  although  I  know  well  that  you  could  not  resist  my 
words.  But  I  will  not  say  it,  Petr.  Because  I  know  that  you  are 
deceiving  your  own  self,  and  that  it  is  too  late  —  too  late  for  every- 
thing. 

Petr  {feverishly) . —  And  what  if  it  is  not  too  late.^ 

Maya. —  It  must  be. 

Petr  {crushed). —  Must.      {Broken^  he  sinks  down  on  the  bench.) 

{It  is  dark  now,  and  the  sky  is  full  of  stars.  From  the  distant 
village  the  tune  of  a  fiddle  falls  hither  softly,  quietly,  and  prolonged.) 

Maya  {moved,  goes  toward  Petr). —  It  must  be  Petr,  it  must 
{she  puts  her  hand  on  his  brow).     Poor  boy,  it  must  be  so. 

Petr  {takes  both  her  hands). —  Marenka. 

Maya  {longingly). —  Marenka.  Do  you  know  for  how  many 
years  no  one  called  me  by  that  name.^  Ach,  Petr,  Petr,  this  is  no 
longer  myself 

Petr  {lowly). —  And  who  is  it,  then.^ 

Maya. —  Some  one  who  died  years  ago.  Ach,  Petr,  if  you  but 
knew.     But  not  even  you  would  believe. 

Petr  {softly).— Whsit? 

Maya. —  That  I  am  just  as  strong  as  I  told  you,  just  as  vicious. 
But,  look,  both  of  us  fell  victims  to  this  moment. 

Petr  {feverishly) . —  Really .'' 

Maya. —  Don't  speak  about  it,  I  beg  you,  do  not  say  even  one 
word.  It  would  be  in  vain.  But  just  keep  on  looking  with  me  at 
those  clouds.     At  my  clouds.     Our  clouds. 

{Sitting  beside  him,  she  lets  her  head  fall  on  his  shoulder.  Both 
stare  at  the  starry  skies.  From  the  village  the  faint,  soft  music  of  a 
fiddle  can  be  heard,  slow,  prolonged,  and  sad.) 

Maya  {after  a  while). —  I  would  so  like  to  ask  you  about  one 
thing,  Petr.  {Stops  and  continues  after  a  short  pause.)  I  would  so 
gladly  speak  to  you  about  something  dear  to  me  and  —  forlorn. 
{Lost  in  thought  for  a  long  time.) 

Petr. —  About  our  childhood. 

Maya. —  And  about  something  else.  About  something  later. 
If  you  have  ever  loved. 

Petr  {just  like  in  a  dream). —  I,  never 

Maya. —  And  I  but  once.  Once  in  all  —  so  loyally  and  purely, 
so  truly  I  shall  never  love  again. 

Petr. —  Never.? 


450  THE   CLOUDS 

Maya. —  Never.  And  so  much  love  had  died  within  me  —  and 
so  much  love  still  lives. 

Petr. —  And  does  it  live  for  any  one  at  all  t 

Maya. —  For  no  one  in  this  wide,  wide  world.  Still  it  lives 
for  everything.     It  burns  and  burns  and  will  burn  out  in  vain. 

Petr. —  Marenka,  must  it  be  so.? 

{Their  heads  have  touched  each  other,  he  kisses  her.) 

Maya. —  It  must,  Petr,  it  must  {rises  half  zuay).  Petr,  it  must 
be  so  {has  risen  erect).     Petr,  promise  me. 

P^^r.— What.? 

Maya. —  That  we  will  both  forget. 

Petr. —  It  is  not  possible. 

Maya. —  And  that  you  will  finish  your  studies. 

Petr. —  And  what  if  not  even  that  is  possible? 

Maya. —  You  must. 

Petr  {still  confused). —  And  if  I  cannot.? 

Maya  {confidently) . —  I  will  compel  you. 

Petr  {erect,  he  presses  his  palms  on  his  brow). —  GOD.     GOD. 

Maya. —  Petr,  to-day  we  see  each  other  for  the  last  time. 

Petr  {frightened). —  That  is  not  possible.  That  will  not  happen! 
Do  you  want  to  kill  me  ? 

Maya. —  No,  my  friend,  to  save  you. 

Petr. —  And  you  —  was  all  this  not  true.? 

Maya  {for  a  moment  confused). —  Don't  ask,  but  obey.  {Firmly.) 
Petr,  you  must  obey!  Even  I  am  obeying  and  perhaps  with  a  greater 
pain  than  you.      {They  look  at  each  other.)      {Silence.) 

{Suddenly  from  the  open  window  is  weakly  heard  the  voice  o/Petr's 
sick  mother). —  "Petrichek,  are  you  there.?" 

Petr  {is  aroused). 

Maya. —  Did  you  hear.? 

{His  mother^ s  voice  can  he  heard  again,  softly  and  beggingly). — 
"Petrichek,  can  you  hear  me.?" 

Petr  {frightened). —  Maminka 

Maya  {with  a  forced  calmness). —  Yes,  she  is  calling  you.  Let 
us  go  to  her!     {She  makes  a  few  steps  toward  the  house.) 

Petr  {just  as  if  he  had  waked  up,  detains  her). —  No,  for  God's 
sake,  not  now.     I  would  not  dare  to  go  in,  now. 

Maya  {meaningly). —  You  do  not  dare  even  that! 
Petr. —  I  would  feel  so  sorry  for  her. 

Maya. —  See,   Petr,  see!     You  are  a  weakling  —  only  a  short 


JAROSLAV   KVAPIL  451 

while  ago  you  wanted  to  rebel  against  the  fates.  {Firmly.)  Let  us 
go  over  to  your  mother,  Petr. 

{The  rumbling  of  an  approaching  carriage  can  he  heard  in  the 
distance.) 

Petr. —  No,  no,  at  least  do  not  let  us  go  there  together. 

Maya. —  You  are  right.  I  have  no  business  there.  Go  there 
yourself,  she  only  called  you. 

Petr  {hesitates). 

Maya. —  The  carriage  is  coming  already.  {Softly  and  benevo- 
lently.)    Go,  Petr. 

Petr  {goes  into  the  house) . 

Maya  {sta^ids  alone  in  the  midst  of  the  yard). 

{ The  rumbling  of  the  carriage  has  ceased.  The  doctor^ s  voice  can 
now    be    heard.) 

Votava  {entering  from  the  outside  with  M^vtoush). — And  do  you 
think  that  my  horse  would  not  find  its  way  in  the  dark.''  And 
before  we  get  ready  the  moon  will  come  out  again.  But  poor  Miss 
Zemanova,  she  had  to  wait  so  long! 

Maya  {merrily). —  Really,  doctor,  I  thought  that  you  ran  away 
from  me. 

Matoush  {surprised). —  And  gracious  me.  Miss,  are  you  here  in 
the  dark  and  all  alone .^     Where  is  Petr? 

Maya. —  His  mother  called  him. 

Matoush. —  And  that  you  are  not  inside! 

Maya. —  It  is  such  a  beautiful  evening.     Grant  me  that  pleasure. 

Matoush. — And  I'll  gamble  that  you  have  not  had  supper  yet. 
Is  it  not  so.^     That  is  the  way  it  is  when  the  housekeeper  is  sick. 

Petr  {comes  out  of  the  house). 

Matoush. —  You  are  a  nice,  hospitable  gentleman,  Petr. 

Votava. —  And  how  is  maminka.? 

Petr. —  She  just  woke  up. 

Votava. —  Well,  and  how  is  she.^  She  does  not  complain,  does 
she.? 

Petr. —  Not  just  now. 

Maya  {calmly) . —  And  she  will  be  all  right  again  to-morrow. 
You  will  see. 

Votava  {goes  into  the  house). —  I  will  take  a  look  at  her  before  I 

go- 

Matoush. —  All  right,  doctor.     I  am  with  you.     Look  out  fo 
the^stoop ;  it  is  so  dark. 


452  ^THE   CLOUDS 

{They  go  in.) 

Maya  {standing  near  the  threshold). —  And  I  must  go  in  to  say 
good  by. 

Petr  {detains  her). —  Must  you? 

Maya. —  Yes,  to  every  one  and  everything.  {Goes  nearer  to  him.) 
And  forgive  me,  Mr.  Petr. 

Petr  {feverishly). —  You  must  come  again. 

Maya. —  I  cannot. 

Petr  {decided) . —  Then  I  will  come ! 

Maya  {commandingly) . —  I  forbid  it!  You  must  not!  {Goes 
into  the  house.) 

Petr  {sinks  on  the  bench  and  breaks  out  into  a  loud  sobbing). 

{From  the  distant  village  the  faint  music  of  the  fiddle  sounds  sadly, 
softly,  prolonged.  After  a  while  it  ceases  and  a  plaintive  song  from  a 
solitary  female  voice  is  heard.) 

ACT  III 

Scene  as  before.      Time,  early,  before  sunrise. 

Kocianova  {sitting  on  the  bench  under  the  tree  —  she  looks  heart- 
broken and  despairing). 

Matoush  {stands  near  her.  He  holds  his  hat  in  one  hand  and  with 
the  other  he  is  mopping  his  brow). 

Petr  {stands  before  them.     He  looks  dozvncast). 

Kocianova  {sobbing). —  Petr,  Petr,  what  have  you  done-f* 

Matoush. —  Boy,  boy,  don't  you  feel  sorry  for  your  old  mother? 

Petr. —  Maminka,  for  God's  sake,  do  not  cry.  Forgive  me,  but 
I  cannot  do  otherwise.  I  have  been  holding  it  back,  I  have  tried 
to  keep  it  from  you,  and  not  to  reveal  it,  I  have  tried  to  overcome  it, 
but  all  in  vain.  For  many  nights  I  have  not  slept,  and  often  I 
prayed  the  whole  night.  But  in  the  morning  I  decided  that  I  would 
be  only  lying  to  myself  and  to  you  if  I  kept  it  back  and  did  not  tell 
you  the  truth.  I  feel  that  I  could  never  be  happy.  And  that  you 
would  be  unhappy  also  —  uncle,  for  God's  sake,  please! 

Matoush. —  Poor  fellow!     I  thought  it  would  happen.     I  thought 
so.     But  why  did  not  you  speak  sooner?     Did  I  not  often  remind 
you   that   you  should  study  your  heart  and  soul,  that  you  shouldV 
question  it  before  you  decided  upon  your  course  of  life.     That  time 
when  you  graduated  from  the  gymnasium  I  spoke  to  you  about  it. 


JAROSLAV   KVAPIL  453 

and  even  the  other  day.  Then,  of  course,  it  was  just  as  late  as  it 
is  now.     But  what  has  happened  so  all  of  a  sudden.'' 

Kocianova. —  These  last  few  days,  that  I  was  so  sick,  I  prayed 
to  God  to  give  me  back  my  health  once  more  for  your  sake.  So  I 
would  at  least  live  long  enough  to  see  you  a  pastor  of  the  Lord  and 
to  know  that  I  have  not  brought  you  up  in  vain.  Ach!  Better 
had  He  called  me  into  His  fold,  rather  than  to  live  to  witness  this. 

Petr  {painfully). —  Maminka. 

Matoush  {seriously). —  Don't  blaspheme,  Marianka.  What  has 
happened,  has  happened.  It  was  His  will.  But  you,  Petr.  Let 
us  talk  sensibly.  We  are  grown-up  people;  you  too,  Petr,  are  no 
longer  a  child.  Tell  me,  what  do  you  intend  to  do.^  If  you  do  not 
wish  to  finish  your  theological  studies,  well  and  good.  You  say 
that  you  would  only  sin  against  your  own  conscience  if  you  would 
sacrifice  your  outward  life  to  the  service  of  the  Lord  without  your 
inward  will.  You  could  have  been  a  good  enough  servant  even 
without  that  inward  conviction.  But  these  changes  do  not  happen 
all  of  a  sudden  —  still,  let  us  take  it  for  granted.  But  you  are  no 
longer  at  that  age  when  one  can  drop  one  career  and  start  another 
without  many  consequences.  It  is  rather  late.  And  you  have  to 
be  something. 

Petr. —  I  am  capable  of  doing  everything,  only  if  my  conscience 
is  clear. 

Matoush. —  You  are  capable.  Well,  maybe  you  are.  But  you 
have  considered  all  these  things  before  you  decided  —  and  I  hope 
that  you  have  not  forgotten  all  the  circumstances.  Do  you  want  to 
go  to  the  university.^     Do  you  want  to  study  medicine.''     Law.f" 

Petr. —  Decide  upon  anything,  uncle.  I  will  gladly  take  up 
anything,  anything,  anything. 

Matoush. —  Foolish  man.  We  should  again  decide  for  you, 
to-day  when  you  have  matured,  when  as  a  man  you  should  be  able 
to  take  an  independent  step,  even  heedlessly. 

Petr. —  And  have  I  not  taken  such  a  step  t 

Matoush. —  Yes,  but  how.  You  want  to  drop  theology.  But 
what  would  you  like  to  be?  Let  us  say  that  you'll  go  to  the  uni- 
versity. In  the  first  place  you  ought  to  consider  that  a  man  of  your 
age  is  not  an  able  student.  Then  I  am  an  old  man  and  liable  to 
die  to-day  or  to-morrow,  and  country  parsons,  you  know,  do  not 
leave  any  temporal  wealth.     How  are  you  going  to  study.? 

Petr. —  I  will  work,  uncle,  I  will  work  days  and  nights.     Others 


454  THE   CLOUDS 

have  finished  their  studies  amid  poverty  and  hunger. 

Matoush. —  But  do  you  know  how  old  you  would  be  when  you 
would  graduate?  Thirty-two  or  thirty-three.  And  what  would 
you  amount  to  then.?  Nothing.  How  many  years  would  fail  to 
forty  before  you  would  be  an  independent  man?  Did  you  consider 
that  ? 

Petr. —  It  would  not  be  necessary  that  I  should  go  to  the  uni- 
versity. I  will  learn  a  profession,  any  profession,  even  a  low  and 
an  humble  one. 

Matoush. —  And  to  find  a  low  and  an  humble  profession  you  had 
to  study  until  you  are  twenty-eight.  So  that  afterwards  you  could 
clerk,  or  play  the  lackey,  like  an  excommunicated  priest. 

Kocianova  {still  crying) . —  Petrichek,  Petrichek 

Matoush. —  Let  us  talk  sensibly,  Petr.  Let  us  talk  like  two 
grown-up  men  who  will  not  dodge  the  most  painful  questions.  You'll 
leave  the  seminary  and  go  out  into  the  world,  the  world  with  all 
its  customs  and  conventionalities.  You  will  perhaps  be  desirous 
of — let  us  talk  uprightly,  boy  —  you  will  perhaps  be  desirous  of  — 
married  life 

Kocianova  {quietly). —  Merciful  Jesus! 

Matoush. —  No,  sister,  such  things  have  to  be  talked  over.  {To 
Petr.)  Tell  me,  in  how  many  years  would  you  hope  to  reach  that 
stage  of  life,  when  as  an  honest  man  you  could  build  you  a  homely 
hearth?     Did  you  think  of  that? 

Petr  {confused  and  silent) .  ' 

Matoush  {again). —  Have  you  thought  of  that?  {After  a  while, 
with  emphasis.)     Petr,  I  know  why  you  don't  answer  me. 

Petr  {entirely  confused). —  But,  uncle 

Matoush  {slowly  and  quietly). —  You  see,  my  boy,  this  question 
of  mine  confused  you  entirely.  And  I  know  why.  {Goes  over  to 
him  and  takes  him  by  the  hand.)  Look  into  my  eyes.  Look,  Petr, 
without  fear.  It  is  not  necessary,  my  dear  fellow,  that  you  should 
cast  down  your  eyes  before  your  old  uncle. 

Petr. —  Uncle  —  {kisses  his  hand  feverishly) . 

Matoush  {to  Kocianova). —  Don't  cry,  sister,  don't  cry.  You 
will  not  mend  things  with  tears.  {Goes  over  to  her  and  embraces  her 
lightly.)  Go,  poor  woman.  Go  away  from  here  for  a  while  and 
leave  us  here  alone.  God  will  grant  that  we  shall  come  to  an  under- 
standing.    {Helps  her  to  rise.)     Well,  go,  go,  Marianka. 

Kocianova  {gets  up,  her  hands  on  her  breast). —  Petrichek,  have 


JAROSLAV  KVAPIL  455 

some  sense  and  pity. 

Matoush. —  Crying  and  sobbing  will  not  better  it.  Come, 
leave  us  here  alone.  In  a  while  I  will  have  to  go  to  say  morning 
Mass,  and  I  should  like  to  speak  to  him  alone.  {He  escorts  her  away. 
Returning.)  I  did  not  want  to  speak  about  it  before  your  mother. 
She  would  not  understand.  {Sincerely.)  But  I  understand  you, 
my  boy  {warmly).     Tell  me,  do  I  not  understand  you.? 

Petr  {with  painful  gratitude). —  Uncle 

Matoush  {takes  him  by  the  hand  and  draws  him  toward  himself 
on  the  bench). —  So,  it  is  true.? 

Petr  {looks  into  his  eyes  and  understands). —  It  is,  uncle,  it  is. 
But  it  would  have  happened  anyway 

Matoush. —  Anyway,  you  say.?  Yes,  yes,  but  so  much  worse 
that  it  has  happened  now.  Because  now  that  question  of  mine 
must  be  answered.  {Seriously).  How  old  will  you  be  when  you  will 
be  able  to  marry  her.? 

Petr  {is  silent). 

Matoush. —  And  how  old  will  she  be.?  You  are  almost  of  the 
same  age.     Have  you  thought  of  that  also.? 

Petr. —  About  that  I  have  not  thought  at  all. 

Matoush. —  See,  see,  you  have  not  thought  of  it,  and  you  are 
ready  to  throw  away  your  entire  life. 

Petr. —  But  I  feel  so  strong,  so  strong 

Matoush. —  Those  are  words,  my  dear  boy.  You  should  have 
felt  so  before.  You  should  have  felt  so  at  the  time  when  I  asked 
you  if  you  felt  strong  enough  to  comply  with  your  mother's  wishes. 

Petr. —  At  that  time  I  did  not  know  anybody  —  I  knew  no  one 
except  maminka  and  you. 

Matoush. —  And  what  if  you  will  never  know  any  one  else? 
And  soon  neither  mother  nor  myself,  and  remain  here  all  alone, 
like  a  barren  rock  amidst  seas.  Petr,  I  do  not  force  you.  I  will 
not  sorrow,  like  your  mother.  I  will  gladly  assist  you,  but  I  am  old. 
I  beg  you,  my  dear  fellow,  think  it  over  carefully,  lest  all  these  new 
sacrifices  are  in  vain.  There  are  moments  in  our  lives  when  we  have 
no  right  to  decide  or  choose  what  course  we  would  take.  When 
we  must  not  think  of  our  happiness  or  our  future,  but  when  the 
errors  of  our  bygone  years  commandingly  point  the  inevitable  way 
they  have  formed  for  us.  {The  churchbell  begins  to  toll.)  They 
are  already  ringing  for  early  Mass  —  I'll  have  to  go.  And  this  is 
the  law  of  life.      I  would  this  morning  rather  minister  to  the  wants 


456  THE   CLOUDS 

of  your  heart  than  to  the  Lord,  and  He  would  strengthen  me  in  this, 
the  greater  service.  I  would  rather  stay  here  with  you  and  help 
you,  but  see  {slight,  bitter  smile)  even  I  have  to  go  now  the  way  my 
errors  point  {goes  toward  the  house) .  Come,  Petr,  come  to  your  mother. 
Do  not  go  to  church  with  me  as  you  do  on  other  days.  It  would  be 
sheer  hypocrisy.  Come  to  your  mother.  And  if  you  can,  try  to 
cheer  her  up.     {They  both  go  out.) 

{ The  courtyard  remains  empty  for  a  while,  then  the  rumbling  of  an 
approaching  carriage  can  be  heard.  Shortly  after  Maya,  in  a  traveling 
costume,  comes  in  with  Dr.  Votava.) 

Maya. —  So  then,  doctor,  I  think  I  will  take  your  advice,  though 
my  intention  was  to  go  to  the  station  directly,  and  not  to  stop  here 
at  all.     But  if  you  think  I  can  help 

Fotava. —  You  can  help.  Miss  Maya.  I  am  an  experienced 
doctor,  and  I  know  my  patients  well.  I  have  diagnosed  this  case, 
and  my  conclusion  is,  that  an  operation  is  necessary. 

Maya. —  But  why  did  you  tell  not  me  about  this  sooner.^  Why 
did  you  wait  until  the  very  moment  when  I  am  leaving  this  place? 

Fotava. —  You  must  admit,  Miss  Zemanova,  that  the  situation 
here  is  very  peculiar.  At  first,  I  asked  my  wife  to  speak  to  you 
about  it,  but  you  know  how  my  wife  is  —  Therefore,  I  decided  that 
I  would  take  you  to  the  railway  very  early  in  the  morning  so  that 
I  would  have  an  opportunity  to  talk  it  over  with  you.  If  you  really 
care  anything  about  Petr,  you  must  speak  to  him  before  you  leave 
here  for  good. 

Maya. —  Doctor,  tell  me  the  whole  truth.  What  did  Petr  tell 
you? 

Fotava. —  Ah.  Nothing  more  than  what  I  told  you  on  the  way. 
The  other  night  he  suddenly  appeared  at  my  house  and  said  that  he 
wanted  to  speak  to  me.     {Inquisitively.)     Did  he  not  visit  you? 

Maya. —  No.  We  have  not  seen  each  other  since  that  Monday 
night  that  I  was  here  with  you. 

Fotava. —  And  did  he  not  mention  to  you  that  he  wants  to  drop 
theology  ? 

Maya  {firmly). —  Yes,  he  mentioned  it.  And  I  told  him  that  he 
should  not  do  it.     I  told  him  that  very  distinctly. 

Fotava. —  Really? 

Maya. —  Do  you  doubt  my  words? 

Fotava. —  No.  I  believe  you.  Only  you  will  have  to  tell  him 
again,  and  more  distinctly. 


JAROSLAV   KVAPIL  457 

Maya. —  And  do  you  think  that  he  will  obey  me? 

Votava  (quietly). —  Yes,  because  it  is  for  your  sake  that  he  wants 
to  leave  the  seminary. 

Maya  (surprised). —  And  did  he  tell  you  that? 

Fotava. —  No,  he  did  not,  but  I  dared  to  infer  it.  He  only  said 
that  he  had  been  struggling  a  long  time,  that  he  does  not  know  in 
whom  to  confide  at  first,  that  he  feels  sorry  for  his  mother  and  uncle. 
That,  therefore,  he  first  came  to  me  for  advice. 

Maya. —  And  you  ? 

Votava. —  Ach.  Nonsense,  mere  nonsense.  I  soon  guessed 
what  was  what. 

Maya. —  And  what  if  you  are  hurting  me? 

Votava. —  No.  I  am  not.  Why?  I  am  not  accusing  you  of 
anything.  You  have  not  done  anything,  at  least,  not  intentionally. 
But  perhaps  unintentionally?  (Looks  at  her  searchingly.)  Don't 
you  think  so? 

Maya  (firmly). —  Yes,  unintentionally.  And  therefore  you  are 
right,  doctor.  I  must  not  go  away  now,  because  I  like  Petr  and  I 
must  first  destroy  the  mischief  that  I  have  caused.  I  will  take  your 
advice. 

Votava. —  You  will  do  excellently.  Miss  Zemanova. 

Maya  (decided). —  Or  I  ought  rather  to  say  I  will  obey  my  own 
resolution. 

Kocianova  (coming  out  of  the  house) . 

Votava  (has  noticed  her). —  Well,  and  here  is  Mrs.  Kocianova. 
Miss  Zemanova  has  come  to  say  good  by  to  you,  Mrs.  Kocianova. 

Kocianova  (without  animation,  sadly). —  So  you  are  really  going, 
Miss. 

Maya. —  Yes  I  am,  really. 

Votava. — You  look  very  worried,  Mrs.  Kocianova, — is  anything 
the  matter? 

Kocianova    (bursts  into   crying). —  Ach.     God!     Doctor 

(In  the  church  the  bell  begins  to  toll  again.) 

Votava  (understands). —  Ach,  so  —  I  know  now.  Well,  don't 
grieve  before  time.  The  father  is  in  church,  ha?  And  Mr.  Petr 
also? 

Kocianova. —  No.     He  is  in  the  hall. 

Votava. — We  will  go  to  see  him.  In  the  mean  time  you  can  say 
farewell  to  Miss  Maya.  But,  hurry.  In  a  little  while  we  will  have 
to  be  going.     (Goes  into  the  house.) 


458  THE  CLOUDS 

Maya  {she  is  short  oj words). —  I  really  thought,  Mrs.  Kocianova, 
that  I  would  not  be  over  to  see  you  any  more.  I  am  on  my  way  to 
Prague.     But  the  doctor  told  me  about  something  on  the  way. 

Kocianova  {without  interest). —  About  what,  Miss.? 

Maya. —  About  that  which  Mr.  Petr  intends  to  do. 

Kocianova  {surprised) . —  And  so  the  doctor  knows  about  it  ? 

Maya. —  Mr.  Petr  went  to  him  for  advice. 

Kocianova  {mournfully). —  Before  he  told  his  own  mother!  God, 
God!     What's  happening! 

Maya. —  He  did  not  want  to  make  you  sad.  He  first  wanted 
to  talk  to  some  one  else  about  it. 

Kocianova. —  God  —  God ! 

Maya  {firmly). —  And  I  am  coming  to  dissuade  him.  I  feel  it  my 
sacred  duty. 

Kocianova   {softly). —  My  dear  golden  Miss. 

Maya. —  Of  course  I  do  not  know  if  he  will  obey  me.  I  dread 
the  thought  that  he  will  not.  But  promise  me,  Mrs.  Kocianova,  that 
even  if  I  am  not  able  to  persuade  Petr,  still  that  you  will  forgive  me. 

Kocianova. —  And  what  shall  I  forgive  you  t 

Maya. —  I  don't  know  how  I  ought  to  tell  you,  so  that  you  would 
not  misunderstand  my  words.  Listen,  when  I  came  to  you  the  other 
day  and  heard  that  Mr.  Petr  was  to  become  a  priest,  I  felt  sorry  for 
him.  I  did  not  expect  to.  And  when  I  learned  that  it  was  your 
doing,  I  felt  angry  with  you.     You  will  forgive  me,  won't  you.? 

Kocianova  {confused). —  But,  Miss 

Maya. —  See!     I  did  not  consider  possible  what  I  feel  now. 

Kocianova. —  You  know  that  it  would  be  a  great  sin.? 

Maya  {she  overcomes  her  own  conviction). —  Yes.  It  would. 
And  that  sin  I  do  not  want  to  have  on  my  conscience.  But  tell  me, 
tell  me  the  truth.     Did  it  not  occur  to  you  that  I  caused  it  all.? 

Kocianova  {surprised). —  Merciful  Jesus!  Miss!  How  could  I 
ever  think  so  meanly  of  you .? 

Maya  {timidly). —  Really,  do  you  not  blame  me.? 

Kocianova. —  But,  God  in  heavens.  Miss !  That  would  be  against 
God,  if  Ifshould  ever  for  a  minute  think  that  you  could  be  so  bad, 

Maya. —  So  you  do  not  believe  that  Mr.  Petr  wanted  to  do  it  on 
account  of  me.? 

Kocianova. —  Great  heavens!     Could  that  be  possible.? 

Maya  {firmly). —  It  could. 

Kocianova. —  Did  he  say  anything  like 


JAROSLAV  KVAPIL  459 

Maya. —  I  know  it.     He  did  not  say  anything,  but  I  know  it. 

Kocianova  {crushed  down). —  Just  God! 

Maya. —  And  that  is  why  I   am  going  to  talk  him  out  of  it. 

Because  it  is  my  fault.  Look!  I  have  not  your  faith,  but  at  this 
^  moment  I  feel  that  in  our  souls  there  must  not  be  even  a  shade  of  ! 
insincerity  if  we  would  do  something  really  pure  and  great.  Before 
I  speak  with  Petr  I  must  tell  you  everything.  I  must  confess  to  you 
just  as  you  confess  your  little  sins  to  your  priests.  In  all  my  life  I 
have  fought  against  hypocrisies  and  dissimulations,  and  even 
now  I  also  feel  that  I  could  never  be  victorious  over  Petr  if  I 
should  not  tell  you  the  truth.  And  that  is  why  I  am  confessing 
to  you  with  ardent  sincerity.  It  is  for  my  sake  that  Petr  wants 
to  do  this.  I  have  caused  it,  Mrs.  Kocianova.  Can  you  for- 
give me.? 

Kocianova. —  But  that  is  not  possible.     That  is  not  possible. 

Maya  {wholly  decided). —  It  is  more  than  possible.  It  is  the 
truth.  When  after  so  many  years  I  came  back  to  you,  I  could  not 
understand  what  a  chasm  divides  us.  It  was  all  like  a  dream  to  me, 
like  the  return  of  my  childhood.  I  did  not  want  to  understand.  I  only 
wanted  to  enjoy  the  returning  memories  of  my  early  childhood.  It 
was  an  exquisite,  ardent  delight  to  me  that  all  the  feelings  of  my 
beautiful  days  were  returning  to  me  here,  and  I  spoke  with  Petr  as 
sincerely  as  we  did  in  our  childhood  days.  I  did  not  see  that  abyss 
which  in  the  mean  time  had  divided  us,  but  I  offered  him  both  my 
hands  across  it.  Even  I  felt  dizzy  for  a  while.  But  he  is  reeling. 
And  if  he  falls  into  that  abyss  it  will  be  my  doing. 

Kocianova  {crying,  sinks  on  the  bench). 

Maya  {after  a  pause). —  Before  I  leave  here  for  good  I  will  try 
to  save  him.  Ach.  God.  Only  a  moment  ago  I  thought  that  I 
would  be  able  to  do  it.  And  what  if  I  shall  not  be  able  to.?  If  I  am 
not,  you  will  all  be  unhappy.  And  ought  it  to  be,  that  I  should  go 
away  from  here  leaving  you  to  remember  me  with  love,  with  sin- 
cerity, and  without  bitterness.?  No,  I  will  not  have  that,  my  golden, 
my  dear  Mrs.  Kocianova.  You  shall  have  known  it,  you  shall  have 
known  it  from  me,  no  matter  what  will  happen.  {Pause.)  If  you 
could  know  what  pain  it  causes  my  heart  when  I  see  you  so  down- 
cast! {Sits  down  beside  her.)  My  dear,  dear  maminka.  {Kisses 
her.) 

Kocianova. —  May  God  forgive  you!  And  may  the  Lord 
strengthen  you  with  His  blessings!     Let  us  hope  that  you  will  sue- 


460  THE   CLOUDS 

ceed,  since  you  feel  so  strong. 

Maya  {azuakening  and  rising). —  My  heart  will  be  bleeding  while 
I  talk  to  Petr.  It  will  be  to  me  as  though  I  were  burying  my  youth 
for  the  second  time.  But  I  do  not  fear  it.  I  will  be  strong.  I  will 
be  feelingless. 

Kocianova  {looks  up  to  her). 

Maya. —  Feelingless  to  him  and  to  myself.  And  to  myself 
mostly,     {Decided.)     Let  us  go  to  him. 

Kocianova. —  And  do  you  want  to  tell  him  all  that  before  the 
doctor.? 

Maya. —  You  are  right.  I  would,  perhaps,  not  be  strong  enough. 
Send  him  to  me. 

Kocianova  {rising). —  May  the  Lord  strengthen  you!  {She  goes 
away  slowly  into  the  parsonage.) 

{Pause.) 

Maya  {erect.,  decided.,  goes  after  her.  She  stops  near  the  doorway 
and  looks  forward^  expecting  Petr). 

Petr  {after  a  while  appears  on  the  threshold). 

Maya  {all  decided,  as  soon  as  she  sees  him) . —  Mr.  Petr,  I  have 
■<X)me  to  say  good  by  to  you. 

Petr  {Extremely  surprised  and  confused) . —  Miss  —  you  here  ^. 

Maya. —  Did  not  Dr.  Votava  tell  you.? 

Petr. —  He  did  not.     I  thought  he  came  alone. 

Maya. —  Mr.  Petr,  I  did  not  mean  to  come  to  you  any 
more.  For  your  sake  —  and  —  for  my  sake.  But  I  am  coming 
again  and  for  the  last  time,  because  it  had  to  be.  Give  me  "your 
hand. 

Petr  {gives  her  his  hand). —  Did  I  do  any  harm  to  you.? 

Maya  {she  smiles  slightly  and  sadly). —  You  —  to  me.?  {Shakes 
her  head.)  I  —  to  you.  And  therefore,  first  of  all,  forgive  me 
{stops,  not  finishing).  Yes,  forgive  me.  It  is  the  last  cordial  and 
kind  word  I  shall  say  to  you.     {Stops.)     Will  you  forgive  me? 

Petr  {confused). —  Yes. 

Maya  {pretending  calmness). — ^Thank  you.  And  now,  know  why 
I  have  come  again.  I  come  to  tell  you,  Mr.  Petr,  that  you  have 
sinned  awfully  against  your  mother.  I  will  not  mention  your  uncle, 
although  you  have  also  wounded  him.  But  you  have  inexorably 
wronged  your  mother. 

Petr  {surprised) . —  I .? 

Maya. —  You  and  I,  both  of  us.     But  I  want  to  be  strong  again. 


JAROSLAV   KVAPIL  461 

I  want  to  rise  again  and  go  away  from  here  straight,  unburdened, 
and  in  silence. 

Petr  {embarrassed). — And  I  also. 

Maya. —  Never.    You  will  humble  yourself  and  remain. 

Petr. —  I  cannot. 

Maya  {with  emphasis). —  You  will  humble  yourself  and  remain. 
You  are  to-day  capable  of  nothing  else  but  humbleness.  If  you  do 
not  know  it  to-day  you  will  know  it  to-morrow,  or  soon  enough. 
Because  you  were  born  for  lowliness  and  resignation  —  and  my  path 
leads  another  way  and  to  other  places.  It  is  giddy  —  bold  —  but  so 
narrow  that  no  one  can  walk  alongside  of  me.  I  throw  down  every- 
one who  would  dare  to  walk  at  my  side. 

Petr. —  And  even  me.? 

Maya. —  You,  first  of  all. 

Petr. —  Then  I  will  go  without  you. 

Maya. —  Where  to.? 

Petr. —  After  you. 

Maya. —  You  shall  not  dare  it!  Before  me  there  are  sky- 
touching  peaks,  but  behind  me  are  chasms  and  chasms.  Behind  me 
there  are  dead  bodies,  multitudes  of  dead  bodies  of  those  who,  like 
you,  wanted  to  mate  with  me.  And  these  who  wanted  to  come  with 
me  were  stronger  than  you  are.  They  were  free,  their  feet  were  not 
fettered. 

Petr. —  Nor  shall  my  feet  be  fettered  hereafter. 

Maya. —  They  are  and  shall,  though  you  may  not  know  it.  Do 
you  suppose  that  I  need  to  remind  you  of  your  mother.?  I  need  not. 
And  even  if  she  were  not,  you  cannot  follow  in  my  paths.  Turn 
back,  you  fool. 

Petr  {resolutely). —  I  don't  believe  you.  You  scorn  me  for  the 
sake  of  my  old  mother,  out  of  sympathy  for  her  naive  love,  for  the 
sake  of  her  religious  promise. 

Maya  {with  a  short,  contemptuous  smile). — Ach.  You  childish 
simpleton.  What  would  your  mother  mean  to  me  in  such  a  moment, 
if  I  wanted  you  to  come  with  me.?  What  would  all  her  creed,  that  is 
to  me  a  strange  creed,  be  to  nae.?  What  would  I  care  for  her  happi- 
ness, the  happiness  of  a  stranger,  if  I  wanted  you  at  my  side.?  Do  you 
think  that  you  were  the  first  or  only  one.?  Know  it,  then,  since  you 
must!  I  lied  to  you  the  other  day  when  I  said  that  I  only  loved  once 
and  purely.  It  was  the  impulse  of  the  moment.  I  said  it  because 
the  moment,  that  charming  moment,  amused  me.     I  was  thirsty  for 


462  THE   CLOUDS 

your  warm,  unpolluted  blood,  and  I  grasped  your  hands  and  laid  my 
head  on  your  chest  like  a  vampire.  But  it  was  only  for  the  moment. 
I  am,  poor  boy,  used  to  greater  whirlwinds  of  passion,  to  warmer 
sensations,  and  your  petty,  feverish  fantasy  hardly  was  enough  for 
one  quiet  evening.  A^Tr.  Petr,  you  would  be  ridiculous  if  for  one 
such  petty  moment  you  would  be  wrecking  your  entire  future,  your 
entire  life. 

Petr  {he  had  been  listening  to  her,  with  a  grozuing  consterna- 
tion).—  Now  he  breaks  out). —  You  lie!  You  lie!  Only  to  get  rid 
of  me. 

Maya  {coldly  and  harshly).^  Yes,  I  lie,  but  not  for  the  purpose 
of  getting  rid  of  you.  You  would  not  even  be  able  to  reach  beyond 
your  own  petty  environment.  You  would  soon  sink  under  the 
surface  without  a  stir  on  my  part. 

Petr. —  Why  did  you  come  back  f  You  would  not  have  come 
back  if  the  things  you  say  were  true! 

Maya. —  Why  I  came  back.^  Because  I  pitied  you.  I  pity  all 
weak  people  and  that  pity  is  the  only  beautiful  feature  of  my  trance- 
ful  life.  I  do  not  feel  sorry  for  strong  people  —  they  are  my  equals  — 
the  people  of  my  blood  —  to  such  I  grant  with  passion  a  moment  at 
my  side.  Perhaps  only  for  this  reason  that  I  should  add  sweetness 
to  their  toilsome  life,  before  an  early  death.  And  that  is  why  I  have 
come  to  undeceive  you  from  your  delusions.  See,  even  such  a  Chris- 
tian mission  amuses  me  at  times. 

Petr. —  I  don't  believe  you. 

Maya. —  You  cannot  believe  me.  I  understand  you.  In  your 
pious  naiVeness  you  have  learned  to  classify  people  into  good  and 
bad  only.  Into  apostles  and  devils,  into  saints  and  sinners.  You 
do  not  know  that  human  nature  is  an  undivided  composite  element 
which  contains  parts  of  both  —  evil  and  good.  That  it  often  does 
good  in  order  to  effect  evil  and  sometimes  acts  evilly  to  bring  about 
good.  The  strength,  that  yearning  strength  of  my  life,  has  given 
me  a  plentitude  of  different  passions  and  sentiments,  but  when  I  was 
tired  of  everything,  my  glory,  my  art,  and  my  passions,  I  went  out 
to  seek  something  different,  something  unusual  —  the  enchantment 
of  primitive  memories  and  recollections,  these  small  dainty  flowers 
that  grew  alongside  of  the  paths  of  my  childhood,  the  fairy  tales  of 
my  once  unspotted  soul.  That  is  why  I  was  so  good  when  I  came 
here  again  after  so  many  years,  that  is  why  I  gloried  in  that  evening. 
But  how  long  could  it  have  lasted  ^     In  its  footprints  I  felt  the  coming 


JAROSLAV  KVAPIL  463 

storm  —  storm  —  storm  —  the  element  of  my  life.  And  to-day  it  is 
all  over,  it  is  victoriously  and  freezingly  clear. 

Petr  {crushed). —  So  you  refuse  me. 

Maya  {hardly  able  to  overcome  herself). —  Yes.  Entirely!  Those 
are  the  remains  of  that  undivided  composite  element  of  human  nature 
—  that  I  am  discarding  wholly.  For  that  to  me  is  also  a  victory, 
and  I  am  always  victorious.  Bow  your  head,  Petr,  and  look  down, 
as  you  ever  did,  on  the  ground.  As  for  me  —  I  am  'going  high  up 
after  the  shining  glory  —  into  the  airy  clouds. 

Petr  {sinks  down  on  the  bench  near  the  house.  His  head  in  his 
palms). 

Maya  {stands  alongside  of  him,  erect,  feelingless,  majestic,  vic- 
torious). 

Petr  {after  a  pause). —  And  do  you  know  what  you  have  done? 

Maya. —  I  do.     You  will  return  to  your  faith  and  to  your  calling. 

Petr  {half  straightened). —  And  what  if  I  do  not?  What  if  I 
perish  ? 

Maya. —  How? 

Petr. —  Perhaps  with  my  own  hand. 

Maya  {smiles  scornfully). —  You  will  not  kill  yourself.  You  are 
too  weak  to  do  that,  just  as  I  would  be  too  strong.  Life,  my  friend, 
is  not  a  romance  or  a  melodrama  where  people  shoot  themselves  so 
easily.  Life  has  a  healing  power  even  for  those  who  know  but  little 
of  its  tremendous  scope.  And  you,  Petr,  you  are  a  tender,  flexible 
little  tree  —  life  will  bend  you,  but  not  break  you.  There  is  no  need 
for  it.     {Stops  a  while  and  then  says  commandingly)   Rise,  Petr! 

Petr  {unintentionally  rises). 

Maya. — ^  And  give  me  your  hand.  {She  takes  his  hand). —  From 
this  last  pressure  of  your  hand  I  want  to  extract  some  pleasure.  I 
want  to  leave  here  victorious.  I  want  to  know  that  I  have  con- 
vinced you. 

Petr. —  Convinced  me  of  what? 

Maya. —  That  I  do  not  deserve  that  you  should  love  me.  That 
I  am  not  worthy  of  your  sacrifice. 

Petr. —  It  would  be  all  in  vain. 

Maya. —  Yes,   it  would   be   all   in  vain.     But   your  mother  is 


464  THE   CLOUDS 

awaiting  you  in  the  hall  there, —  is  that  also  in  vain? 

Petr. —  You  are  terrible! 

Maya. —  I  am.     Because,  look,  I  do  not  want  to  be  otherwise. 
{After  a  while.)     Well. 

Petr  {quietly). —  You  know  best  what  I  will  have  to  do. 

Maya  {with  a  flash  of  joy,  which  she  suppresses  quickly) . —  And 
what  will  happen? 

Petr  {overcome). —  I  will  return. 

Maya. —  Surely? 

Petr. —  Surely. 

Votava  {during  the  last  phrases  he  has  been  unnoticed  standing  on 
the  threshold.  Now,  when  both  Petr  and  Maya  are  silent  for  a  while,  he 
says,  looking  at  his  watch). —  Well,  Miss  Zemanova,  we  must  be 
going  or  we  shall  miss  our  train. 

Maya. —  All  right,  all  right,  doctor  —  we  will  go. 

Votava  {to  Petr). —  And  how  about  you,  my  friend? 

Maya. —  We  are  agreed,  are  we  not,  Mr.  Petr? 

Petr  {from  his  depths). —  Yes. 

Votava  {with  satisfaction) . —  Really  ? 

Maya  {with  the  last  strength  of  her  bravado) . —  And  you  doubted 
it,  doctor?  Go,  Mr.  Petr,  go  and  tell  your  mother.  She  surely  is 
waiting. 

Petr  {suddenly  giving  her  his  hand). —  Thank  you. 

Maya  {hardly  able  to  overcome  herself).  —  And  I  thank  you 
also. 

Petr  {goes  into  the  house) . 

Maya  {sinks  on  the  bench  where  before  Petr  was  sitting.) 

{Pause.) 

Votava. —  So,  really,  he  will  stay? 

Maya  {with  a  sigh). —  He  will. 

Votava. —  One  really  should  not  wonder.  He  could  not  have 
done  otherwise. 

Maya  {looks  at  him). —  And  do  you  know,  doctor,  that  this 
result  was  bought  with  blood  ? 

Votava  {calmly). —  Ach,  well,  that'll  pass. 

Maya   {smiling  sorrowfully). —  And   do  you   know  that   I   paid 


JAROSLAV   KVAPIL  465 

for  it  with  my  own  blood?  That  I  have  thrown  myself  into 
mud  and  stepped  on  myself,  that  I  have  been  smiting  my  own  face, 
that  I  have  slandered  myself,  in  order  to  save  him  —  for  his 
mother  ? 

Votava  {surprised). —  But,  Miss 

Maya. —  And  look,  I  must  not  even  cry.  Although  I  would 
so  much,  so  much  like  to  cry.  But  he  must  not  see  that  it  has  hurt 
me.     Do  you  think  that  his  was  the  greatest  sacrifice.? 

Vatova  {taking  her  hand). —  I  understand  you,  and  I  admire 
you. 

Maya  {rises). —  Even  that  is  not  necessary,  doctor.  Am  I  not 
a  comedian.? 

Votava. — But,  say 

Maya. —  Yes,  and  this  was  a  desperate  comedy  —  the  worst 
comedy  of  my  life.     Now,  the  curtain  has  fallen.     And  we  will  go. 

Kocianova  {coming  out  of  the  parsonage) . 

Votava  {to  Kocianova). —  Well,  did  I  not  tell  you,  Mrs.  Kocia- 
nova.?    What  unnecessary  worries  you  have  again  caused  yourself, 

Kocianova  {hurrying  to  Maya). —  Is  it  possible.  Miss.?  May 
God  Almighty  reward  you. 

Maya. —  Everything  is  possible,  Mrs.  Kocianova,  if  we  have  a 
will. 

Kocianova  {looks  at  her  but  does  not  understand). 

Maya  {quickly). —  And  those  that  have  no  will  should  not 
attempt  anything.  {Kissing  her.)  May  God  preserve  you.  Good 
by.  And  may  you  all  be  as  happy  as  you  were  heretofore.  Give 
my  regards  to  the  reverend  father.  I  will  not  be  able  to  see  him 
any  more. 

Kocianova  {crying). —  My  dear  soul,  my  golden  soul. 

Maya  {to  Votava). —  Let's  be  off.     {Wants  to  go.) 

Votava. —  And  are  you  not  going  to  say  good  by  to  Mr.  Petr.? 
{He  calls  into  the  hall.)     Mr.  Petr,  come  here  to  say  good  by. 

Petr  {comes  on  the  threshold). 

Maya  {gives  him  her  hand) . —  Good  by,  Mr.  Petr,  and  may  you 
be  well  and  happy. 

Votava. —  And  say  I  will  come  to  see  you  again  next  year. 

Maya. —  No,  no,  Mr.  Petr  —  good  by  for  good  —  forever. 
{She  goes  quickly  toward  the  gate.) 

Kocianova  {escorts  her). 


466  THE  CLOUDS 

Fotava  {giving  his  hand  to  Petr). —  Well,  so  good  by,  comrade, 
and  as  I  say,  you  have  done  excellently.     {Goes  after  them.) 

{Quiet.  Dr.  Votava,  Maya,  and  Kocianova  are  gone.  After 
a  while  the  rumbling  of  a  departing  carriage  is  heard.) 

Kocianova  {returns  after  a  while). —  Petrichek,  my  golden  Petri- 
chek.  {She  hurries  to  him.)  Well,  Petrichek,  what  are  you  looking 
at  so  sadly? 

Petr  {quietly). —  I  —  am  —  looking  —  at  those  —  clouds. 


"THE  PRINCESS  HAS  HER  LOVERS" 

By  Sara  Teasdale 

The  princess  has  her  lovers, 

A  score  of  knights  has  she. 
And  each  can  sing  a  madrigal, 

And  praise  her  gracefully. 

But  Love,  who  is  so  bitter. 

Hath  put  within  her  heart 
A  longing  for  the  scornful  knight 

Who,  silent,  stands  apart. 

And  though  the  others  praise  and  plead, 

She  maketh  no  reply. 
Yet  for  a  single  word  from  him 

I  ween  that  she  would  die. 


HAFIZ 

Two   Translations 

By  Edna  Worthley  Underwood 
I 

MUGHANNINAME 

THE  BOOK  OF  THE  SINGER 

Why  tarriest,  Singer?     Take  thy  lute  and  come! 
With  royal  song  call  back  again  the  royal  one. 

Be  great  thoughts,  too,  our  guests  amid  the  wine, 
And  mention  of  old  friends  exiled  by  time. 

Bring  to  our  jaded  circle  joy  of  June. 
Let  KuP-  and  ghaseP-  blossom  to  thy  tune. 

Grief  bowed  unto  the  earth,  beggared,  was  I, 
Once  more  on  wings  of  song  oh,  let  me  fly! 

Through  richest  measured  magic,  Singer,  go, 
Grief's  curtain  lift!     The  face  of  beauty  show! 

So  well  let  inspiration  wing  thy  flight 
That  Anahid^  dances  adown  the  night. 

The  maiden  harpist,  to  whose  witching  song 
Old  friends  unto  the  Banquet  backward  throng, 

^Ghasel  and  kul  are  Persian  verse  forms.  Ghasel  is  a  verse  of  merry  meter; 
kul  is  a  somewhat  graver  form. 

'Anahid,  the  star  Venus,  is  the  protecting  star  of  singers  and  musicians. 
It  is  fancies  to  be  a  beautiful  woman  playing  upon  a  harp  within  the  sky.  Sohre — 
Venus,  the  evening  star,  sometimes  called  Anahid. 

467 


468  MUGHANNINAME 

Who  lifts  enrapt  to  God  the  Sufi^  up 

As  surely  as  from  hand  to  mouth  the  cup. 

Give  tones  so  vibrant,  rich,  so  roundly  sweet 
The  tangling  dust  of  Time  falls  from  the  feet. 

Deliverance  bring  from  cares  of  sordid  earth, 
Safe  sheltered  in  my  heart  bring  Peace  to  birth. 

Come,  Singer,  come!     Befriend  me  as  of  yore! 
In  case  the  lute  fails  let  the  loud  drums  roar. 

'Tis  best  when  in  the  blood  wine  works  its  harm, 
To  drown  it  with  the  deafening  drum's  alarm. 

Why  tarriest,  Singer  .f'     Red  ros2  time  is  here. 
When  nightingales  sing  sweetest  of  the  year, 

Embowered  within  the  green.     Shall  I  not  know 
The  joy-song  of  my  blood  when  lutes  breathe  low.^ 

Come,  Singer,  through  the  ear  inspire  the  soul. 
With  fresh  songs  ever  let  fresh  music  roll. 

Shatter  my  heart,  my  Singer,  with  thy  song! 
Create  it  greater,  cleared  of  grief  and  wrong! 

O!  joy,  if  thou  shouldst  show  such  grace  to  me. 
Again  within  my  heart  youth's  fire  set  free, — 

Youth's  fire!    swift  to  consume  gray  Grief  and  Care, 
And  wrinkled  Sorrow's  household  drive  from  there. 

Why  tarriest,  Singer.^     On  thy  strings  strike  loud. 
Come,  banish  from  my  breast  this  beggar  crowd! 

^Sufi.     A  meditative  mystic.     This  order  have  numbered  among  its  members 
many  poets  of  the  East. 


EDNA  WORTHLEY  UNDERWOOD  469 

A  beggar  sooner  hence  myself  would  go 

When  Death  calls,  than  a  purple  robe  to  show.* 

Sweet  Singer,  swifter  strike  adown  the  strings  — 
Swifter,  I  say!     A  truce  to  sorrowing! 

Or  leifer  wouldst  thou  sing  an  Irak^  song 
While  blinding  tears  the  swollen  eyelids  throng? 

Come,  Singer,  since  my  soul  confides  in  thee, 
Upon  my  truth-pledged  word  this  do  for  me: 

Be  shabby  Grief's  sad  camps  thy  glorious  goal; 

With  song  pray  scatter  them,  with  twirled  drum's  roll! 

Spacious  with  love  my  heart  now  shelters  thine; 
Inspire  the  flute  with  friendship's  breath  divine; 

Drown  deep  thy  woe  in  wine!     Suffice  that  not, 
Breathe  in  the  flute,  by  breath  e'en  life  is  bought.   . 

Why  tarriest.  Singer.?     Come,  fresh  songs,  I  say! 
Thy  cup  is  empty?     Fill  it  then  straightway, 

That  we  together  new  born  unto  joy 
May  happy  be  a  space  sans  care's  alloy. 

And  with  the  others  let  my  own  songs  meet. 
Tripping  beside  thy  lute  they'll  seem  more  sweet. 

Let  Music  make  my  soul  her  home  to-night! 
Lead  on  the  dance!     The  cowl  I'll  fling  from  sight! 

Upward,  inspired,  from  thought  to  thought  I'll  soar 
What  time  wine's  guarding  the  Tongue's  Tavern  Door! 

*The  Persian  color  of  mourning  is  blue. 

*The  Irak  meter  corresponds  somewhat  to  our  word  elegy,  in  that  it  is 
dedicated  to  grief. 


470  MUGHANNINAME 

Grief  grasps  my  heart!     The  two-stringed  lute  let  ring, 
Nay!    Nay!  —  the  three  stringed  —  to  the  One  Great  King! 

Fresh  songs,  my  singer!     And  brave  let  them  be! 
I'd  have  friends  hear,  exchange  their  joys  with  me. 

To  pleasure  them  who  walk  the  ways  of  bliss 
Once  more  pray,  sing  of  Barbud^  and  Perwis! 

I've  caught  Fate  at  her  knavish  tricks  again! 
I'll  toy  with  love,  forget  both  life  and  men ! 

Upon  this  gloomy  resurrection  shore 
Alone  the  blood  of  grapes  is  ours  to  pour. 

I  watch  amazed  the  dizzy  Heaven  spin: 

Who's  freed  from  life  to-day.?     Who'll  death  begin .^ 

Mere  fraud  and  vanity  are  things  of  earth; 

The  Night  is  pregnant:    What  brings  she  to  birth.? 

Sure  happiness  and  peace  no  man's  may  be. 
Who  stands  safe  on  a  bridge  built  unsafely.? 

The  vulture's  instinct  hath  the  greedy  dust, 
Which  Selm''  and  Tur^  into  the  darkness  thrust. 

Beside  this  road  of  ruin,  desolate  and  dead, 
Efrasiab^  a  palace  proud  builded. 

'Barbud  was  a  singer  at  the  court  of  the  Sassanian  King,  Choszrew  Perwis, 
who  reigned  from  590  to  626. 

^elm  and  Tur  were  the  sons  of  King  Feridun,  a  mythical  king  of  Iran. 
They  slew  their  elder  brother  after  he  had  become  king.  Later,  they  too  were 
slain  by  a  relative.  Firdusi  speaks  of  them  in  his  satire  to  Sultan  Mahmud:  "I 
have  sung  of  adventures  with  wolves  and  lions  and  dragons,  of  kings  with  their 

crowns  and  helmets  of  Shah  Efrasiab  and  Tur  and  Selm "        Feridun   has   been 

sung  of  by  Firdusi   in  the  Shah-nameh.     Saadi  has  written  of  the  vizier  of  Feridun. 

"Efrasiab  was  a  mighty  Prince  from  Turkestan,  and  a  dangerous  enemy  of 
Persia.     He  was  noted  for  his  love  of  splendor. 


EDNA  WORTHLEY  UNDERWOOD  471 

Where's  his  great  general  gone,  pray,  Prince  Piran? 
And  Schideh^  where,  with  sword  from  Turkestan? 

And  where  their  fellow  soldiers?     No  one  knows  — 
Nor  over  them  where  reddest  blooms  the  rose. 

For  struggle,  strife,  and  sorrow  Fate  made  men; 
One  fights  best  with  the  sword,  one  with  the  pen. 

*Schideh  was  one  of  the  sons  of  Efrasiab. 


II 

SAKINAME 
THE  BOOK  OF  THE  TAVERN  KEEPER' 

Bring  on  the  wine!^     Light  inspiration's  fires! 
To  genius,  to  ambition,  bring  fresh  desires! 

Once  my  well-hoarded  wealth  these  virtues  rare. 
Until  love  basely  did  my  soul  ensnare. 

'Julius  Hart,  in  that  part  of  his  essay  on  Persian  Poetry  which  deals  with 
"The  Tavern  Keeper,"  says:  "This  characterizes  the  poetic  spirit  of  the  Sufi, 
the  mystic,  that  he  never  expresses  his  teachings  in  abstract  words,  but  wraps  them 
in  an  embroidered  picture  gown  and  expresses  everything  allegorically,  perhaps 
for  the  purpose  that  the  orthodox  may  be  deceived  as  to  the  size  of  the  chasm 
that  yawns  between  deistic  Mohammedanism  and  the  pantheistic  religion  of  the 
Sufi.  Since  all  mysticism  is  the  outgrowth  of  a  superabundant  imaginative  life,  it 
is  natural  that  the  oriental  mystic  should  use  beautiful  symbols  of  the  senses  .  .  . 
and  under  the  figure  of  the  handsome  Tavern  Keeper,  God  is  almost  always 
meant.  Whether  one  has  always  to  do  with  a  mystic  poem  or  a  real- 
istic song  of  love  and  wine  cannot  be  decided  with  absolute  certainty.  And  it 
cannot,  therefore,  be  considered  strange  that  Omar  and  Hafiz  should  likewise  be 
condemned  as  freethinkers  and  scorners  of  things  sacred." 

^"  Drink  with  thy  lips  from  the  cup  of  consecrated  love  of  the  wine  of 


472  SAKINAME 

Bring  on  the  fluid  gold  which  Noah's  life  boon  — 
Such  fabled  treasure  gives  as  rich  Karun!^ 

To  him  who  thus  lifts  up  a  prayerful  eye 
The  Gateways  of  Desire  will  open  fly. 

Bring  on  the  golden  fire  which  in  Earth's  breast 
Old  Zoroaster*  sought  with  pious  zest. 


eternity,  for  from  its  intoxication  is  beloved  desire  born  and  heights  are  found 
in  its  depths." —  Rumi. 

"Drunken  often  is  God's  man  without  wine." —  Rumi. 
"Trunken  mussen  wir  alle  sein! 

Jugend  ist  Trunkheit  ohne  Wein, 
Trinkt  sich  das  Alter  wieder  zur  Jugend, 
So  ist  es  wundervolle  Tugend." 

— Goethe. 
Hafiz  wrote  in  "the  divine,  high  piping  Pahlevi"  of  Omar.      His  admirers 
called  him  "the  tongue  of  the  Unseen."     Hafiz  and  Anacreon  are  the  two  poets 
whose  reading  is  said  to  bring  madness. 

^Karun  was  famous  for  his  weahh.  The  term  corresponds  to  our  word 
Croesus. 

*Zoroaster  was  a  prophet  and  teacher  of  reHgion  about  900  B.C.  Wise 
Man's  Fount:  It  is  related  of  the  prophet  Chiser  that  he  journeyed  into  the  land 
of  Darkness,  where  he  found  the  fountain  of  life. 

"Great  Dschem  once  wrote  this  upon  a  stone  beside  a  fountain:  Many  have 
rested  and  refreshed  themselves  here  and  then  gone  on  when  the  light  of  the  foun- 
tain failed;  I  conquered  the  world  by  strength  and  courage,  and  yet  into  the  grave 
I  can  take  nothing  with  me. 

Saadi.  The  Bostan. 
"Dschem's  Magic  Cup."  The  Eastern  fable  has  it  that  once  a  basket  of 
grapes  was  brought  to  King  Dschem  just  as  he  was  starting  for  the  hunt.  He 
ordered  the  grapes  to  be  placed  in  a  costly  jar  and  kept  until  his  return.  The  hunt 
lasted  longer  than  he  intended,  and  when  he  returned  he  found  in  the  jar,  not  grapes, 
but  a  rich  and  fragrant  liquid.  He  wrote  the  word  'poison'  upon  the  jar  and 
set  it  away.  One  day  one  of  the  beauties  of  the  palace,  who  desired  to  end  her 
life  because  of  jilted  love,  found  and  drank  it.  Instead  of  dying  she  fell  into  a 
deep  and  pleasureful  sleep.  When  she  awoke  she  remembered  her  pleasant  dream 
and  desired  to  live.  Then  wine  was  made  for  the  first  time  by  the  Persians, 
and  named  "The  Sweet  Poison."  King  Dschem  hastened  to  try  it  and  so  did 
all  his  courtiers  and  his  wise  men  and  his  scholars,  and  it  became  widely  cele- 
brated. The  king  possessed  a  golden  cup  upon  the  bottom  of  which  all  the  mys- 
teries of  earth  were  revealed.  This  cup  plays  an  important  part  in  Persian  poetry. 
Goethe's  "Konig  in  Thule"  seems  almost  to  be  a  reminiscence  of  Deschm  and  his 
cup  of  gold.  The  fables  of  the  cup  are  many.  It  is  told  of  Hafiz  that  once  an 
old  man  held  out^to  him  a  magic  cup.     He  drank  of  it  and  became  an  inspired  poet. 


EDNA  WORTHLEY  UNDERWOOD  473 

When  crowned  with  love  and  wine  why  should  we  care 
Whether  we  pray  to  earth  or  fire  or  air! 

Bring  on  the  wine,  the  dream,  the  dear  delight! 
Dawn  rosy  paints  the  Cup  of  Dschem'  the  night. 

Bring  on  Dschem's  magic  Cup,  that  by  its  might 
I  may  explore  the  secrets  of  the  light. 

Dschem's  magic  Cup  bring  me!     Make  haste,  I  say! 
Whene'er  you  find  it  empty,  fill  it,  pray. 

This  royal  word  spake  great  Dschemschid  of  old: 
^*One  grain  of  wheat  will  all  earth's  treasure  hold." 

Bring  on  the  cup,  sparkling  like  Selsebil!* 
My  pole  star  be  it,  topping  Heaven's  hill. 

When  flute  and  cither  shed  their  sweetness  down 
The  Cup  I'd  not  exchange  for  King  Kei's  crown. 

Bring  on,  I  say  again,  the  virgin  wine, 
Unsmirched  of  tavern  smoke  and  pure  and  fine. 

Bring  joy  back  to  my  heart  once  more  though  I 
Gather  the  gossiping  world's  grudges  thereby. 

Bring  joy's  fire  back,  which  once  should  wild  beasts  know, 
The  mighty  forests  would  be  leveled  low. 

Alone  it  frees  from  coil  of  change  and  time, 
And  for  me  opens  the  Tent  Door  divine. 

*Dschem  or  Dschemschid  is  the  somewhat  mythical  first  king  of  Persia,  to 
whom  fable  has  attributed  exploits  and  heroic  deeds.  He  is  a  national  hero  after 
the  manner  of  King  Arthur.  He  taught  the  Persians  agriculture  and  the  useful 
arts.     Firdusi  has  sung  at  length  of  his  wars. 

^Selsebil,  a  river  of  Paradise.  It  is  a  frequent  term  of  comparison  in  Per- 
sian poetry: 

"Thou  whose  face  is  Eden,  and  whose  lips  are  selsibil. 

Schehab-ed-din-Edib-Sabir. 
Rumi  speaks  of  the  Fountain  Selsebil,  which  Sweet  Youth  guides  you  to  the 
Gates  of  Paradise." 


474  SAKINAME 

Bring  on  the  wine!     In  it  the  Houris''  smiled! 
There  Heaven  keeps  their  sweet  breath  undefiled. 

Oh,  with  it  I  will  quench  this  passion's  glow, 
A  little  while  at  feet  of  Peace  sit  low. 

Bring  wine,  whose  rosy  light  strikes  up  the  sky 
To  greet  there  for  me  Dschemschid  and  King  Kei! 

'Tis  then  I'll  ask  when  flutes  shed  sweetness  down, 
"When  wore  Kawusz^  and  when  Dschemschid  the  crown  ?'^ 

Oh,  Life  is  but  a  substance  made  for  song! 
With  song  call  back  again  the  kingly  throng. 

Let  each  one  rule  awhile  beneath  the  light. 

Let  wine  all  dim  thoughts  strengthen,  make  more  bright! 

I  lorded  it  full  well  the  Heart's  Throne  o'er 
'Til  Scorn  and  Sin  shut  fast  on  me  the  door. 

Bring  wine!     Bring  wine!     Thus  dissipate  my  night! 
Bring  softness  to  m}^  sorrow,  to  darkness  light! 

Its  glory  now  upon  me's  richly  shed. 
And  now  the  face  of  Wisdom's  unveiled. 

A  spirit  glorious  was  I  and  free. 

As  dust  amid  the  dust,  who  exiled  me.^ 

Yet  when  the  crystal  cup  my  hand  does  hold, 
I  see  the  mirrored  joys  of  earth  unfold. 

At  Gates  of  Sacrifice  I  bend  the  knee. 
And  though  a  beggar  a  king  seem  to  be. 

'Houris  are  the  maidens  of  the  Mohammedan  Paradise,  whose  beauty  de- 
lights the  faithful  after  death. 

*Kawuszwas  Shah  of  Iran  in  the  days  of  Rustem.  Firdusi  makes  this  mention 
of  him  in  the  Shah-nameh  where  he  tells  the  story  of  "Sorab  and  Rustem":  "To 
Kawusz  they  brought  this  grievous  word:  The  throne  has  lost  Rustem  its  defense." 


EDNA  WORTHLEY  UNDERWOOD  475 

Whenever  drunken  Inspired  Hafiz  sang, 
From  Heaven  Sohre's  lute  in  answer  rang. , 

Life  is  a  fickle,  frail,  inconstant  thing; 
Seek  then  within  the  cup  joy's  doubling. 

Wine  lengthens  out  alone  man's  little  day. 
And  makes  real  for  a  space  the  phantom  way. 

Enjoy  the  banquet  board,  the  candle  light! 

To  none  Life  keeps  the  troth  that  she  does  plights 

As  floating  bubbles  on  a  cup  of  wine. 
Vanished  in  dust  Keikobad's  might  divine. 

To  sleep  send  wisely  now  the  griefs  of  life. 
And  live  not  as  a  slave  held  by  heart  strife. 

Without  the  soul  the  body  cannot  be. 

How  heart  then  without  wine-soul,  pray  tell  me? 

Again  fill  full  the  glass!     Fill  full,  I  say! 
I  drink  to  all  the  kings  who  lived  their  day. 

Has  any,  pray,  escaped  the  thirst  of  Fate, 
Insatiate  of  blood,  livid  with  hate? 

Let  anger  not  for  me  thy  breast  inflame, 
Because  thou  of  the  dust,  of  flame  I  came. 

Fill  full  the  glass!     From  out  its  finer  fire 

Let  comfort  come  forth,  courage,  and  fresh  desire^ 

Incorporate  its  substance  with  my  soul, 
Since  treasures  vanish  as  sea-rivers  roll. 

Bring  wine!     To  match  it  rubies  do  not' dare! 
Let  pride  and  grief  unto  the  devil  fare. 


A76  SAKINAME 

The  rosary  and  cowl  go  with  them  too, 

To  both,  well  pledged  for  wine,  a  long  adieu. 

The  treasures  of  the  Vine  Child  flow  most  free 
Wherever  cloister  walls  frown  heavily. 

Should  any  say  to  thee,    "Beware  the  sight!" 
I  pray  thee  answer  only,    "Friend,  good  night!" 

Bring  on  the  wine!     I  love  its  rosy  flower. 
Let  me  live  grandly  for  one  little  hour! 

Naught  else  can  free  my  heart  a  space  from  grief, 
And  seat  me  at  the  rich  Life  Giver's  feast. 

Wine!    Wine!    that  nourisheth  the  souls  of  men, 
Unto  the  dying  holds  Life's  mirror  up  again. 

Wine!    Wine!    My  tent  I'll  pitch  upon  the  air, 
And  mingle  with  the  bright  star-dwellers  there. 

Fill  full  the  cup  again  with  rarest  wine. 
Thus  fill  my  spirit  with  one  more  divine, 

That,  Tavern  Keeper,  double-natured,  I 
May  praise  thy  wine  the  worthier  thereby. 

Come,  Saki,  let  thy  glory  grace  the  feast, 
Although  divinely  natured,  'tis  not  least. 

Lift  up  the  cup!     Make  haste!     Why  shouldst  thou  fear. ^ 
In  Heaven  'tis  not  accounted  wrong,  as  here. 

Life's  substance,  Saki,  is  thy  wine  to  me. 

Pour  on!    Pour  on!  though  all  should  emptied  be. 

To  death  the  circling  days  had  drawn  me  near 
Until  I  found  the  Wise  Man's  Fountain  here. 


EDNA  WORTHLEY  UNDERWOOD  477 

Quickly  that  Fount  of  Wisdom  bring  to  me! 

On  Rustem's  war  steed  Rachsch^  I'll  ride  grandly. 

And  like  Tuhemten's*^  hero  wield  will  I 

The  sword  of  Truth  'til  Falsehood  faint  and  die. 

Bring  on  the  onyx  carven  crystal  cup! 
I  love  its  joyous  fire  when  lifted  up. 

A  plague  be  on  the  bowed  slaves  of  the  pen! 
But  Inspiration,  let  her  call  again. 

Exterminate  with  wine's  fount  flowing  fire 
The  grief  that  gnaws  the  heart  out  of  desire. 

Make  thine  the  day!     Let  that  be  Duty's  thought: 
Who  knows  whether  another'll  come  or  not.i* 

All  they  who  once  were  Lords  of  Life  and  Time, 
And  feasted  as  fond  lovers  in  their  prime, 

Were  forced  the  tinsel  joy- world  to  forego, 
And  now  forgotten  in  their  graves  lie  low. 

Who  toward  the  Tent  dares  lift  a  haughty  eye.^ 
Who  counts  on  joy  when  all  things  else  pass  by.? 

Alas!    Alas!    that  youth  speeds  like  the  wind! 
Happy  alone  who  keepeth  pure  his  mind. 

Saki,  bring  wine!    Beneath  its  magic  power 
I'll  own  the  two  worlds  for  my  little  hour. 

The  King  with  Arab  steeds  of  wealth  untold, 
And  elephants  of  war  tusked  deep  with  gold. 

Tlaksch  or  Reksch, —  Rustem's  famous  war  steed. 

^Tuhemten  means  the  strong  one,  the  glorious.  It  is  one  of  the  appellation* 
of  the  national  hero  Rustem,  who  is  the  Persian  Siegfried  or  Hercules.  Perhap*, 
however,  Samson  is  the  best  equivalent,  since  Rustem's  strength  was  the  gift  of  God. 


478  SAKINAME 

Who  stormed  the  earth  in  pride  and  swore  to  take, 
A  banquet  is  where  worms  their  hunger  slake. 

From  forth  the  tingling  spheres,  from  Morning's  wing, 
From  out  the  mouths  of  Houris  these  words  ring; 

^' Break  through  thine  earthly  cage,  Sweet  Singer,  Thou, 
Where  naught  but  phantoms  are  hast  lived  enow!" 

Unto  the  Heaven  wing  thy  fearless  flight. 
To  rest  and  reap  reward  on  clearer  height. 

Availed  it,  pray,  Great  Dschem  to  rule  the  world. 
When  from  his  helpless  hand  the  cup  was  hurled? 

To  make  the  wine  of  life  the  red  grape  dies. 
Therefore  it  needs  must  make  my  dead  heart  rise. 

Each  brick  that  yonder  roof  unto  was  brought. 
Was  some  once  mighty  head,  now  dust  and  naught. 

With  royal  blood  the  clefts  of  earth  are  filled, 
And  Beauty's  dust  upon  the  wind  is  spilled. 

One  haughty  at  the  Banquet  boasted  loud. 
Up-swinging  high  the  cup  before  the  crowd: 

"The  jest  and  scorn  of  Heaven  here  is  seen: 
The  great  it  humbles  and  exalts  the  mean." 

Darius  mortals  excelling  so  far 

The  assembled  kings  of  earth  less  kingly  are, 

As  softly  stole  away  when  Death  cried  —  *'Come!" 
As  if  he  ne'er  had  stood  beneath  the  sun. 

Away  now  to  thy  king!     For  me  say  this: 
Who  representest  Dschemschid  well  I  wis, 


EDNA  WORTHLEY  UNDERWOOD  479 

Seek  well  the  beggar  out,  his  hunger  still, 
Ere  yet  the  Cup  of  Dschem  thou  darest  fill. 

All  needlessly  the  griefs  of  earth  confine 
Since  freedom  waits  for  us  within  the  wine! 

And  now  that  such  a  king  the  power  doth  own 
As  never  found  an  equal  on  a  throne, 

Defender  of  the  faith,  of  peace  and  right. 
Of  kingly  Kaianian,  star  most  bright. 

Give  length  of  days,  give  good  health  to  our  king! 
Conquest  unto  his  scepter,  honor,  bring. 

So  long  as  wrong  and  right  draw  not  anigh. 
And  Bull  and  Ram  still  pasture  in  the  sky, 

So  long  —  God  grant  —  may  Shah^^  Mansur  remain, 
And  blessed  be  the  years  o'er  which  he  reign, 

In  wine  which  ripens  in  the  glowing  south 

I  drink  to  him  with  heart  and  hand  and  mouth. 

"Shah  Mansur  —  Hafiz  lived  at  his  court. 


ISADORA  DUNCAN.  PRIESTESS 

By  Shaemas  O'Sheel 

THE  beauty  of  the  human  body  is  a  myth;  but  like  every  myth 
it  is  a  truth  to  those  who  understand.  I  mean  that  while 
it  is  a  cant  phrase  among  us  that  there  is  nothing  more 
beautiful  than  this  our  body,  we  have  actually  proceeded 
so  far,  so  long,  so  relentlessly,  urged  by  those  twin  vices, 
at  whose  feigned  opposition  the  demons  laugh.  Fashion  and 
Prudery,  in  the  abuse  and  suppression  of  the  body,  the  elimination  of  it, 
artistically  speaking,  from  our  daily  lives  and  thoughts,  that  its  beauty  is  to 
us  merely  a  tradition,  a  rumor  of  hearsay,  not  confirmed  by  our  actual  ex- 
perience. We  have  cast  out  beauty  from  the  body  by  a  process  of  distortion 
and  torture,  as  of  old  they  cast  out  devils  on  the  rack;  and  we  have  driven 
the  body  from  the  realm  of  our  more  beautiful  and  exalted  life.  We  do  not 
now  consider  with  solicitude  how  it  may  be  made  more  beautiful,  nor  how 
it  may  be  displayed  as  a  factor  in  the  artistic  life  of  the  day;  fashion  sup- 
plants the  one  consideration  and  prudery  has  made  the  other  impossible. 
And  if  a  score  of  women  from  some  modern  city,  chosen  at  random  among 
all  classes,  were  translated  first  into  revelling  Arcadians,  and  then  into 
nymphs  of  Diana,  it  is  a  question  whether  the  scorn  of  the  goddess  for  their 
shame  and  confusion,  or  the  horror  of  the  Greeks  at  the  malformation  of 
many  and  the  awkwardness  of  all,  would  be  greater. 

The  beauty  of  the  human  body  is  a  myth,  and  it  needs  a  priestess  to 
point  us  the  truth  of  it.  A  great  priestess  has  arisen:  Isadora  Duncan, 
who  has  shown  us  many  and  wondrous  meanings.  May  it  prove  that  she  is 
also  prophetess,  surely  foretelling  the  renaissance  of  reverence  for  the  body, 
when,  as  the  medium  of  a  universal  and  varied  art,  it  shall  at  once  bear 
witness  to  a  new  imaginative  era  and  be  the  symbol  of  a  pervading  joy. 

It  is  this  hint  that  a  joy  once  ours  may  yet  again  stir  the  limbs  and  fill 
the  hearts  of  the  race,  which  holds  the  audiences  at  Miss  Duncan's  recitals 
in  a  strange  and  compelling  fascination.  Peculiar  audiences  they  are, 
seven  eighths  women,  the  beautiful  and  gentle  daughters  of  the  wealthy, 
and  the  women  moulded  to  a  certain  intellectually  critical  attitude  by  the 
college;  and  a  very  few  men,  some  artists,  who  must  feel  a  vicarious  shame 
r  the  comparative  callousness  of  their  sex,  and  some  of  the  callous  sort, 
who  have  evidently  been  brought  unwilling,  or  but  half  willing,  by  women. 

480 


ISADORA  DUNCAN,  PRIESTESS  481 

But  however  little  attuned  to  the  appeal  of  the  dancer  many  may  come  to  a 
recital,  none,  I  think,  ever  goes  forth  from  her  spell  without  a  deep  regret  for 
the  passing  of  an  experience  both  softening  and  exalting;  nor  without  suffer- 
ing a  shock  of  revulsion  from  the  complexity  and  ugliness  of  the  life  rushing 
through  the  streets  of  to-day.  It  is  perhaps  matter  for  astonishment,  cer- 
tainly for  rejoicing  and  the  taking  of  new  hope,  that  time  after  time  the  largest 
auditoriums  in  New  York  city^have  been  filled  to  their  capacities  when  Miss 
Duncan  has  danced,  and  that  this  has  happened  in  other  American  cities 
also.  Of  course  Europe  long  since  proclaimed  her;  but  one  always  fears 
that  perhaps  the  acclaim  of  Paris  and  Berlin  is  the  shout  of  delight  in  a  new 
sensation,  not  the  sincere  tone  of  reverence;  while  the  voice  of  London  is, 
of  course,  a  mere  unintelligent  echo.  The  eagerness  of  the  most  cultured 
and  the  most  alert  classes  in  this,  her  native  country,  to  pay  tribute  is  a  much 
more  significant  thing;  and  though  the  reason  for  this  eagerness  is  one 
which  bears  a  sad  implication,  yet  it  also  hides  pregnant  seeds.  I  am  sure 
that  every  convention-bound  and  polite  one  of  us  has  felt  a  tumult  of  recog- 
nition in  the  presence  of  a  woman  who  is  doing  what  every  polite  and  con- 
vention-bound one  of  us  longs  to  do;  though  we  have  forgotten  it,  we  realize 
suddenly  anew  that  we  do  want  to  dance;  to  run  and  skip  and  toss  our  arms 
in  moments  of  joy,  and  to  express  our  melancholy  in  slow  and  swaying 
rhythms.  This  solitary  figure  on  the  lonely  stage  suddenly  confronts  each 
of  us  with  the  secret  of  a  primal  desire  invincibly  inhering  in  the  fibre  of  each, 
a  secret  we  had  securely  hidden  beneath  our  conventional  behaviors,  and  we 
yearn  for  a  new  and  liberated  order  in  which  we  may  indeed  dance. 

But  if  this  interpretation  of  a  universal  secret  desire,  and  this  intimation 
of  a  new  Arcadian  era,  are  deeper  causes  of  the  vogue  of  Duncan,  the  more 
obvious,  the  more  generally  realized  attraction,  is  that  of  the  sensuous 
beauty  of  her  performances.  The  stately  draperies,  the  impressive  empti- 
ness of  the  stage,  the  dim  radiance,  exquisite,  mystical,  weird,  the  splendid 
feminine  body,  moving  with  a  perfection  of  rhythmic  motion  which  visual- 
izes the  accompanying  music;  these  blend  to  an  impression  of  utter  beauty 
intoxicating  to  souls  long  thirsty  and  unfed.  That  solitary  figure,  gloriously 
a  woman,  voluptuous  yet  slender  and  agile  and  full  of  youth,  barefooted, 
with  draperies  fluttering  away  from  strenuous  legs  and  perfect  shoulders, 
and  arms  *  curving  like  a  precious  chaplet  from  finger  to  throat,'  as  Henri 
Lavedan  has  phrased  it;  swaying  and  running  and  drifting  musically  in  a 
little  space  of  gray  radiance, —  who  can  forget  the  vision  .?  Coming  from 
my  first  experience  of  it,  I  met,  in  the  lobby  of  the  Opera  House,  a  young 
poet  of  supersensitive  genius,  who,  when  I  attempted  some  praise  of  what 
we  had  both  witnessed,  stopped  me  with  a  pained  entreaty  and  a  reproof, 


482  SHAEMAS  O'SHEEL 

which  I  forgave  for  the  justness  of  it.  For  truly  silence  seems  the  perfect 
tribute  to  such  an  achievement,  and  no  words  can  suggest  or  recall  its 
wonders.  An  essay  to  set  forth  certain  subtle  meanings  is  not,  however, 
a  violation  of  this  proper  reticence,  and  if  I  have  in  the  preceding  paragraphs 
discovered  little  of  novel  import,  let  me  attempt  an  indication  of  what  I  feel 
to  be  the  very  greatest  of  all  the  suggestions  of  Isadora  Duncan's  art. 

Greater  even  than  the  creation  of  beauty,  greater  even  than  the  promise 
of  joy  and  freedom,  is  the  interpretation  of  life  by  the  instinctive  wisdom  of 
genius,  which  is  feeling  confirmed  by  thought,  and  which  understands  that 
the  ultimate  of  our  apprehension  is  a  mysticism  impossible  of  interpretation 
save  in  symbolic  art.  Isadora  Duncan's  dancing  is  no  less  than  an  interpre- 
tation of  life  in  symbols.  Watching  her  I  have  felt  that  I  was  watching  the 
Soul  of  Man  moving  in  the  Dance  of  Destiny.  The  term  '  dance  '  has  a 
very  different  and  very  much  more  serious  significance  when  used  to  indi- 
cate Miss  Duncan's  work  than  it  has  when  standing  for  even  the  most 
talented  and  delightful  of  ordinary  stage  dancing.  It  connotes  not  merely 
something  pretty  and  happy,  something  to  beguile  and  amuse;  it  is  an  ex- 
pression of  the  impulse  which  is  a  dream  of  all  beauty;  it  is  a  questioning, 
an  aspiration,  a  thrill  with  hopes  and  fears,  desires  and  joys  and  melan- 
cholies, and  ever  with  wonder.  It  is  mythology,  the  embodiment  of  wonder 
—  and  wonder  is  the  attitude  of  the  soul  confronted  with  mystery,  beauty, 
the  conflict  of  the  passions  of  love  and  hate,  and  the  strange,  strange  moods 
of  joy  and  sorrow.  This,  I  feel,  is  the  deepest  significance  and  the  highest 
beauty  of  the  art  of  Isadora  Duncan. 


SHAKESPEARE'S    POLITICAL 
PHILOSOPHY 

By  L.  W.  Elder 

SINCE  there  is  in  the  half  century  preceding  Hobbes  a  paucity  of 
technical  philosophical  expression,  one  who  is  interested  in  this 
period  must  be  content  to  construct  a  hypothetical  edifice  of 
thought  from  the  scattered  and  untechnical  expressions  in 
general  literature.  For  political  philosophy  Shakespeare's 
King  Richard  II  offers  a  field  for  investigation.  As  we  pass  from 
Shakespeare's  early  period  to  such  a  work  as  this  we  notice  a  radical  change 
in  his  attitude.  He  is  no  longer  filled  with  the  phenomenology  of  the  age 
as  the  exponent  of  the  exaggerated  personal,  but  is  rather  the  historian  of 
the  inner  spirit,  seeking  meaning  in  that  life  of  which  he  had  been  so  pre- 
eminently characteristic.  No  longer  merely  carried  along  by  fashionable 
thought,  he  becomes  prophetic  of  the  skeptical  and  reflective  attitude  which 
history  recognizes  as  an  inevitable  accompaniment  of  the  renaissance. 

The  questions  of  what  is  real  and  true;  what  is  universal;  what 
reality  and  what  universality  have  individuals,  we  here  have  translated  into 
the  corresponding  terms  of  politics.    They  may  be  stated  as  follows: 

What  is  real  and  universal  in  the  state  .?  The  old  dogma  of  kingship 
is  brought  into  question.  The  drama  occurs  in  the  warring  of  the  tradi- 
tions of  the  king  as  a  universal  individual,  and  the  growing  consciousness  of 
a  real  life  coextensive  with  society.  Why  is  it  that  the  king  by  divine  right 
comes  to  an  unhappy  end  }  There  is  no  answer  in  the  mere  record  of  his- 
tory, and  to  the  inquiring  mind  there  is  a  certain  sense  of  defeat.  The  king 
proves  to  be  no  king:  a  universal  which  is  but  one  thing  among  other  things. 
For  this  antithesis  of  a  king  over  against  the  people  as  the  Many,  there  ap- 
pears to  be  no  solution;  unless  by  a  complete  change  of  attitude  toward  the 
state,  we  can  show  why  the  universal  should  be  identified  with  the  end  of 
society.  Though  we  admit,  if  it  is  a  fact,  that  the  ideals  of  society  triumph 
over  those  of  any  individual,  even  a  king's,  yet  we  cannot  say  why  it  should 
be  so. 

What  reality  have  individuals  in  personal  relations  with  others  ?  If 
the  king  is  the  universal,  the  only  real  individual  in  the  state,  then  all  re- 
lations among  men  are  abstractions,  unless  centered  in  the  king.     Such 

483 


484  SHAKESPEARE'S  POLITICAL  PHILOSOPHY 

relations  as  men  have  to  one  another  are  mediated  through  the  king's 
court  —  correspondingly  an  abstraction  for  the  universal  which  compre- 
hends diversity.  The  solution  of  this  problem  lies  in  the  growing  sense  of 
nationality,  which  will  be  a  real  universal  giving  reality  and  worth  to  personal 
relations  in  society. 

The  conservative  position,  upholding  the  divine  right  of  kings,  is 
represented  by  the  church  in  the  person  of  the  bishop,  and  by  the  old  barony 
in  York.  The  position  rests  upon  the  theory  of  a  supernatural  power 
external  to  the  world.  The  physical  world  is  (equally)  arbitrary  and 
lawless;  and  for  that  reason  this  supermundane  power  must  impose  itself 
upon  the  natural,  for  it  is  thus  that  the  eternal  order  of  the  universe  will 
be  made  manifest  in  the  affairs  of  men.  The  dogma  of  the  divine  right  of 
kings  may  be  regarded  as  an  hypothesis  to  allay  doubts  concerning  this 
eternal  order.  It  is  an  explanation  of  an  institution  so  old  that  its  origin 
and  history  have  been  forgotten.  If,  then,  the  history  of  this  institution  is 
unknown  in  natural  terms,  its  traditional  authority  must  be  explained  by 
reference  to  another  sphere.  Hence  kingship  receives  an  extra  natural 
explanation.     (K.  R.  II,  III,  98,  71,  127,  272,  336,  86,  118.) 

The  beginnings  of  doubt  and  the  first  conflict  of  a  new  consciousness, 
with  the  old  tradition  of  kingship,  is  represented  in  Gaunt's  attitude  (I,  508). 
Kis  skepticism  implies  that  even  a  king  cannot  act  contrary  to  natural  laws. 
A  king's  power  lies  in  being  at  one  with  nature,  not  opposed.  So  far  as 
kingship  is  a  divine  right,  just  so  far  is  it  arbitrary  and  non-natural.  Arbi- 
trary, extra-natural  kingship.  Gaunt  implies,  has  no  real  power.  Even 
York  in  his  assiduity  to  profess  his  reverence  for  the  old  authority  lets  slip 
a  question  on  the  king's  justice,  implying  that  though  he  be  king  by  *  fair 
sequence  and  succession,'  yet  he  cannot  set  aside  the  institutions  which 
are  the  outgrowth  of  social  life.  (II,  204,  241.)  Though  the  dualism  of  the 
natural  and  the  supernatural  is  maintained,  it  is  implied  that  political 
institutions  are  natural  in  their  origin,  and  in  their  development  subject 
to  natural  laws,  without  supernatural  interference. 

A  positive  expression  of  the  new  ideal  of  kingship  is  embodied  in 
Bolingbroke,  though  intimations  of  the  same  spirit  are  found  in  Richard 
himself.  While  the  speeches  of  the  latter  may  be  affected  there  is  implied 
a  concession  to  that  new  consciousness  in  the  people.  It  indicates  on 
Richard's  part  a  notion  of  kingly  responsibility,  even  though  that  re- 
sponsibility be  but  an  abstraction  in  the  service  of  his  arbitrary  power. 
It  is  here  that  the  new  sense  of  kingship  connects  with  the  new  idea  of 
personal  relations  based  on  individual  worth.  Politics  is  now  regarded  as 
an  institution  of  social  wellbeing.     Its  purpose  is  not  to  exalt  just  one 


L.  W.  ELDER  485 

individual;  but  every  individual,  even  the  king,  must  react  in  ordinary 
relations  with  others.  The  king,  like  other  individuals,  owes  his  service 
to  the  state.  (Ill,  421-5.)  In  fact  the  king,  just  because  the  leader  of  the 
people,  because  he  embodies  and  secures  their  ends,  resigns  his  individuality 
to  see  it  re-expressed  in  the  life  of  the  whole.  The  grim-minded  gardener 
gives  expression  to  a  vulgar  point  of  view.  (Ill,  513.)  He  forgets  that 
the  leaders  in  a  society  embody  the  ideals  which  are  only  incipient  in  the 
group  as  a  whole,  and  the  '  top-lofty  '  ones  are  needed  to  shape  institu- 
tions to  new  ends.  The  gardener  is  even  reactionary,  since,  by  confusing 
the  state  with  the  king  as  the  only  real  individual  in  the  state,  he  implies 
a  return  to  the  conservative  position.      (Ill,  542.) 

The  status  and  value  of  the  many,  or  the  question  of  personal  relations, 
arises  out  of  an  inquiry  concerning  the  meaning  of  feudalism  and  chivalry. 
That  men  have  no  true  and  universal  relations  between  themselves,  we 
infer  from  the  fact  that  a  personal  grudge  has  no  standing  at  court.  (I,  9.) 
Any  relation  to  have  value  must  involve  the  king  directly,  as  e.g.,  in  treason; 
and  any  situation  which  does  not  involve  the  king,  because  by  that  very 
fact  illegal,  is  at  once  construed  as  casting  suspicion  on  all  the  parties  con- 
cerned. Because  the  relations  of  men  are  arbitrary,  the  situations  in  which 
they  are  placed  may  be  as  arbitrarily  solved  by  the  sovereign.  (I,  400.)  This 
power  of  the  sovereign  is  reflected  in  the  at  least  formal  moral  isolation  of 
men  from  each  other.  Bolingbroke's  conduct  being  interpreted  as  a  sub- 
version of  recognized  good  (the  established  order)  entails  as  a  penalty  an 
equally  violent  procedure  for  the  sake  of  justice.  But  this  justice,  far  from 
being  an  instrument  for  the  maintenance  of  recognized  good,  is  only  the 
personal  interest  of  a  universal  individual.  The  king  talks  about  *  the 
unstooping  firmness  of  my  upright  soul,'  but  this  may  be  regarded  as  the 
abstraction  for  that  justice  and  pretentious  righteousness  which  must  be 
expected  as  an  element  in  an  absolute  monarch.  Richard's  uprightness  is 
a  formal  affair,  deriving  its  authority  from  the  same  attitude  of  mind  that 
permits  such  a  king  to  reign. 

The  significance  of  the  sentence  passed  on  Bolingbroke,  lies,  of  course, 
in  the  fact  that  he  was  not  morally  isolated  from  his  fellows.  In  being 
banished,  king  and  people  alike  suffered.  (I,  sc.  iii.)  The  conduct  of 
every  one  is  informed  by  the  ideals  of  the  people  as  a  whole.  The  actor 
derives  his  motive  from  the  group  which  furnishes  the  opportunity  of  action. 
If,  then,  we  pass  judgment  on  one  who  leads  the  people  we  strike  at  their 
ideal. 

That  a  man  would  be  willing  to  stake  his  life  for  the  righteousness  of 
his  conduct  is  evidence  that  there  was  more  vitality  in  the  mediaeval  con- 


486  SHAKESPEARE'S  POLITICAL  PHILOSOPHY 

sciousness  of  conduct  than  is  usually  allowed.  (I,  80.)  Chivalry  brought 
with  it  a  more  intense  conviction  of  man's  ability  to  solve  moral  situations 
than  we  have  to-day.  But  it  must  be  remembered  that,  in  dealing  with  the 
waning  end  of  chivalry,  as  we  are  in  the  drama  before  us,  the  content  of 
conduct  was  not  real  action  but  honor.  (I,  169.)  Honor,  which  may  be 
called  the  supernatural  in  conduct,  is  the  pursuit  of  an  abstraction  formed 
by  taking  the  principle  for  the  content  of  conduct.  Chivalry  of  course 
reflects  the  morality  of  an  age  which  has  lost  its  sense  of  reality  and  leaves 
the  world  behind  in  search  of  signs  and  wonders.  Conduct  in  such  an  ages  is 
made  up  of  abstractions  which  would  have  reality  only  in  such  another 
world  as  chivalry  vainly  tries  to  habilitate. 

The  drama  shows  the  inability  of  these  old  institutions  to  maintain 
their  meaning,  and  the  failure  of  all  old  methods  of  solution  is  due  to  the 
advent  of  new  ideals  in  conduct.  Norfolk's  speech  implies  the  doctrine  that 
life  for  man  is  an  existence  in  a  social  medium.  (I,  547.)  True  honor  is  a 
principle  of  social  relation,  not  an  abstract  ideal,  but  one  which  depends 
on  a  sense  of  unified  life  and  the  inherent  value  of  a  man.     (II,  40-65.) 


HORACE  TO  HIS  WINE  JUG 

By  Thomas  Ewing,  Jr 

ODES    III,    21 

Oh  twin-fellow  born  under  a  Manlius 
Mine  own  familiar  toby  whether  chatter 
Or  brawls  or  unreasoned  attachments 
Or  heaviness,  pretty  trusty,  bearing; 

Be  what  the  freightage  may  of  the  excellent 
Massic  the  vintage  worthy  a  festival, 
Come  down  to  Corvinus  demanding 
Just  the  variety  you  can  offer. 

For  truly  although  steeped  in  the  dialogues 
Plato  reported  he's  not  averse  to  you; 
The  story  is  Cato  the  ancient 

Found  the  bottle  to  revive  the  conscience. 

You  weaken  if  you  gently  apply  the  rack 
Even  the  toughened,  out  of  the  wariest 
Drawing  the  most  secret  devisings 

When  rollicking  Bacchus  is  beside  you. 

You  give  renewed  hope  unto  the  desperate, 
Upon  the  poor  man  horns  of  might  bestowing. 
That  neither  angered  helmet  of  kings 
Can  terrify  nor  an  army  frighten. 

May  Venus  if  she  smile  a  bit  and  Bacchus, 
And  all  the  Graces  loth  to  be  torn  apart, 
With  our  living  lanterns  attend  you, 
Till  the  planets  are  aflight  of  Phoebus. 

487 


BOOK  NOTES 


Fiction:  "The  Prodigal  Pro  Tem," 
by  Frederick  Grin  Bartlett  (Small, 
Maynard,  $1.50).  "The  Castle  Build- 
ers," by  Charles  Clark  Munn  (Lothrop, 
Lee  &  Shepard,  $1.50).  "The  Steering 
Wheel,"  by  Robert  Alexander  Mason 
(Bobbs,  Merrill,  $1.50).  "The  Sheriff 
of  Dyke  Hole,"  by  Ridgwell  Cullum 
(George  W.  Jacobs,  $1.50).  "Harmen 
Pols,"  by  Maarten  Maartens  (John 
Lane  Company,  $1.35  net).  "Bellcroft 
Prioiy,"  by  W.  Bourne  Cooke  (John 
Lane  Company,  $1.50).  "Everybody's 
Lonesome,"  by  Clara  E.  Laughlin 
(Fleming  H.  Revell,  .75  net).  "Son- 
ny's Father,"  by  Ruth  McEnery  Stuart 
(The  Century  Co.,  $1 .00  net) .  "  Once," 
by  John  Mattes  (Henry  Holt,  $1.20  net). 
"Ashton-Kirk,  Investigator,"  by  John 
T.  Mclntyre  (Penn  Pub.  Co.,  $1.20  net). 
"The  Social  Buccaneer,"  by  Frederic  S. 
Isham  (Bobbs,  Merrill  Co.,  $1.50). 
"The  Frontiersman,  A  Tale  of  the 
Yukon,"  by  H.  A.  Cody  (George  H. 
Doran,  $1.20  net). 

Biography:  "Life  of  Robert 
Browning,  with  Notices  of  His  Writings, 
His  Family,  and  His  Friends,"  by  W. 
Hall  Griffin  and  Harry  Christopher 
Minchin  (The  Macmillan  Co.,  $3.50 
net). 

Poetry  and  Drama:  "The  Town 
Down  the  River,"  by  Edwin  Arlington 
Robinson  (Scribner's,  $1.25  net).  "Pie- 
tro  of  Siena,"  by  Stephen  Phillips  (The 
Macmillan  Co.,  $1.00  net).  "Judith," 
by  Martin  Schiiltze  (Henry  Holt,  $1.25 
net).  "The  Gold-Gated  West,"  Songs 
and  Poems,  by  Samuel  L.  Simpson, 
edited  with  introductory  preface,  by 
W.  T.  Burney  (J.  B.  Lippincott). 
"Pansies  and  Rosemary,"  by  Eben  E. 
Rexford  (J.  B.  Lippincott,  $1.50  net). 
"The  Little  Singer  and  Other  Verses," 


by  Emily  Sargent  Lewis  (J.  B.  Lippin- 
cott, $1.00  net).  "Poems,"  by  Mrs. 
Schuyler  van  Rensselaer  (The  Mac- 
millan Co.,  $1.25  net). 

Juvenile:  "Kiddie  Land,"  by  Mar- 
garet G.  Hays  (George  W.  Jacobs) 
"Under  the  Window,"  pictures  and 
Rhymes  for  Children,  by  Kate  Greena- 
way  (Frederick  Warne  &  Co.,  $1.50  net). 
"The  Emerald  City  of  Oz,"  by  L. 
Frank  Baum  (The  Reilly  &  Britton  Co.). 
"The  Magical  Man  of  Mirth,"  by  El- 
bridge  H.  Sabin  (George  W.  Jacobs). 
"  Anne  Nelson,  a  Little  Maid  of 
Provincetown,"  bv  Alice  Turner  Curtis 
(R.  F.  Fenno  &  Co.,  $1.25).  "Sammie 
and  Susie  Littletail,"  by  Howard  R. 
Garis  (R.  F.  Fenno  &  Co.).  "Those 
Smith  Boys,  or  The  Mystery  of  the 
Thumbless  Man,"  by  Howard  R.  Garis 
(R.  F.  Fenno  &  Co.,  $1.25  net).  " Sher- 
man Hale,  the  Harvard  Half  Back,"  by 
George  Hart  Rand  (R.  F.  Fenno  &  Co., 
$1.50). 

Illustrated  Holiday  and  Travel: 
"A  Hoosier  Romance,"  by  James  Whit- 
comb  Riley,  illustrated  by  John  Wol- 
cott  Adams  (The  Century  Co.,  $1.50 
net).  "Lovely  Woman,"  pictured  by 
famous  American  artists  (Bobbs-Merrill 
Co.).  "The  Whistler  Book,"  mono- 
graph on  the  life  and  position  in  the 
art  of  Whistler,  by  Sadakichi  Hartmann 
(L.  C.  Page  &  Co.).  "The  Art  of  the 
Munich  Galleries,"  by  Florence  Jean 
Ansell  and  Frank  Roy  Fraprie  (  L.  C. 
Page  &  Co.,  $2.00  net).  "The  Story 
of  Spanish  Painting,"  by  Charles  H. 
Coffin  (The  Century  Co.,  $1.20  net). 
"Royal  Palaces  and  Parks  of  France," 
by  Francis  Miltoun  (L.  C.  Page  &  Co., 
$3.00).  "The  Lands  of  the  Tamed 
Turk,"  by  Blair  Jaekel  (L.  C.  Page  & 
Co.,  $2.50).     "  Bohemia  and  the  Zechs," 


488 


BOOK  NOTES 


489 


by  Will  S.  Monroe  (L.  C.  Page  &  Co., 
$3.00).  "Brazil  and  Her  People  of 
To-day,"  by  Nevin  O.  Winter  (L.  C. 
Page  &  Co.,  $3.00).  "Panama  and  the 
Canal  To-day,"  by  Forbes  Lindsay  (L. 
C.  Page  &  Co.,  $3.00).  "Romantic 
Days  in  Old  Boston,"  by  Mary  Caroline 
Crawford  (Little,  Brown  &  Co.,  $2.50). 

Miscellaneous:  "The  Love  of 
Books  and  Reading,"  by  Oscar  Kuhns 
(Henry  Holt  &  Co.).  "The  Chauncey 
Giles  Year  Book  "  (J.  B.  Lippincott). 
"Faith,  Hope,  Love,"  compiled  by 
Grace  Browne  Strand  (A.  C.  McClurg 
&  Co.,  .50  net).  "Love,  Friendship, 
and  Good  Cheer,"  compiled  by  Grace 
Browne  Strand  (A.  C.  McClurg  &  Co., 
.50  net).  "A  Search  after  Ultimate 
Truth,"  by  Aaron  Martin  Crane  (Lo- 
throp,  Lee  &  Shepard,  $L50  net). 
"Under  the  Open  Sky  being  a  Year  with 
Nature,"  by  Samuel  Christian  Schon- 
necker  (J.  B.  Lippincott).  "The  Ori- 
ginal Garden  of  Eden  Discovered,  etc.," 
by  J.  M.  Woolsey  (copyright  by  J.  M. 
Woolsey).  "The  Cause  and  Cure  of 
Colds,"  by  William  S.  Sadler,  M.D. 
(A.  C.  McClurg  &  Co.,  $L00  net). 
"Foster's  Auction  Bridge  up  to  Date," 
by  R.  F.  Foster  (Frederick  A.  Stokes 
Co.,  $L00  net).  "World  Corpora- 
ation,"  by  King  Camp  Gillette  (The 
New  England  News  Co.).  "Mothers 
and  Daughters,  a  Book  of  Ideals  for 
Girls,"  by  Mrs.  Burton  Chance  (The 
Century  Co.,  $L00).  "A  Psychic  Auto- 
biography," by  Amanda  T.  Jones  (Graves 
Publishing  Co.).  "The  Passover,  an 
Interpretation,"  by  Clifford  Howard 
(R.  F.  Fenno,  $1.()0  net).  "Down  to 
the  Sea,"  by  Wilfred  T.  Grenfell 
(Fleming  H.  Revell,  $1.00  net).  "With 
Stevenson  in  Samoa,"  by  H.  J.  Moors 
(Small,  Maj-nard  &  Co.,  $3.00). 

Mr.  Bartlett's  "Seventh  Noon"  we 
thought  an  excellent  piece  of  work,  but 
in  the  "Prodigal  Pro  Tern"  he  has  sur- 
passed   himself   with    a    delicious    plot. 


whose  charming  development  in  comedy 
elements  reveal  to  us  characters  that 
are  delightfully  human  and  fascinating. 
The  scene  is  laid  in  the  Catskill  country, 
and  the  background  of  nature  and  out 
doors  is  woven  throughout  the  romance 
with  descriptions  of  exceptionally  fine 
handling. 

"The  Steering  Wheel"  will  not  en- 
hance the  reputation  of  the  author  of 
"Happy  Hawkins,"  a  story  compounded 
of  love  and  business,  and  a  "happy 
ending,"  neither  the  shrewd  sayings  of 
its  characters  can  redeem  a  plot  full 
of  absurd  complications.  The  story  of 
"Uncle  Asa"  Webster  is  told  in  the 
"Castle  Builders,"  by  Mr.  Munn,  and 
since  "Uncle  Asa"  is  the  very  core  of 
New  England  character,  New  England 
virtues  illuminate  love,  family  devotion, 
and  business  honor  in  the  essentials 
that  furnish  the  author's  plot.  Of  the 
same  genre  in  substance,  but  in  vivid 
contrast  in  setting  is  "The  Sheriff  of 
Dyke  Hole,"  by  Ridgwell  CuUum. 
The  "sheriff"  full  of  blunt  honesty,  a 
deep  fund  of  humor,  and  with  his  many 
inimitable  observations  gives  color  and 
realism  to  a  double  love  story,  set  amid 
the  untamed  forces  of  a  Western  mining 
camp.  From  novels  which  hold  their 
interest  and  develop  their  plots  about 
the  portrayal  of  a  unique  character  to  an 
ingeniously  woven  tale  of  mystery  as 
that  in  "  Ashton-Kirk,  Investigator,"  by 
John  T.  Mclntyre,  is  a  mere  transition 
of  one's  mental  focus  upon  life.  Char- 
acter is  more  puzzling  than  the  mystery 
of  much  of  the  recent,  of  the  "Ashton- 
Kirk"  class;  the  thrill  is  lost  with  a 
satiety  of  counterplots  and  effects. 
Quite  worth  recommending  for  all  their 
publishers  claim  for  them  are  Ruth 
McEnery  Stuart's  "Sonny's  Father," 
Clara  E.  Laughlin's  "Everybody's  Lone- 
some," and  John  Mattes's  "Once." 
To  mention  Mrs.  Stuart's  "Sonny"  is 
to     recall    former    happy    associations, 


490 


BOOK  NOTES 


and  is  enough  to  send  one  immediately 
to  this  new  book  to  hear  the  delightful 
and  tender  chronicle  of  Sonny's  family 
and  of  the  world  in  which  they  live,  by 
"Sonny's  father."  Miss  Laughlin  calls 
her  idyl  a  "true  fairy  story";  we  do 
not  dispute  her,  for  it  holds  a  secret 
and  has  enchantment  which  may  trans- 
form for  us  as  it  did  for  Mary  Alice, 
this  too  often  gray  world  in  which  we 
live. 

Every  one  who  enjoyed  and  held  dear 
Kenneth  Grahame's  "Golden  Age" 
will  take  this  work  of  Mr.  Mattes  to 
heart.  To  say  this  is  a  better  recom- 
mendation than  the  reviewer's  attempt 
to  indicate  its  delightful  quality  by 
epitome  or  quotation.  That  there  are 
other  and  sterner  qualities  in  life  and  con- 
sequently in  fiction,  a  reading  of  Marrten 
Marrtens's  "Harmen  Pols"  convinces 
us.  The  Dutch  "  Scarlet  Letter, "  it  has 
been  described,  in  which  the  battle  of 
the  spirit  is  substituted  for  Hawthorne's 
battle  with  carnal  sin.  It  depicts  a 
young  Dutch  peasant  who  lost  and 
finally  regained  his  faith  in  God  and 
man  in  his  efforts  to  retain,  against  the 
long-hidden  iniquity  involved,  his  in- 
heritance. The  picture  of  mother  and 
son  is  full  of  powerful  characterization, 
and  in  the  story  of  their  struggles  the  very 
spirit  of  Holland  is  expressed.  From 
the  spiritual  tragedy  of  peasant  life  in 
Holland  to  a  genuine  old-fashioned 
middle  class  English  love  story,  shad- 
owed by  the  atmosphere  of  ancient 
influences  and  mellowed  by  tradition,  in 
"Bellcroft  Priory"  one's  emotions  ex- 
perience the  transition  from  unrest  to 
tranquility.  There  is  a  spell  about 
this  English  novel,  even  with  its  note 
of  melodrama  now  and  then  accenting 
its  ineffectual  jealousies  and  fervent 
sentiments  of  love.  John  Clodd  and  his 
mistress  of  ThornclifTe  Hall  are  both 
drawn  with  interest  and  conviction.  It 
is    a    thoroughly   good    story.     From    a 


quiet  English  priory  to  the  Hukon  is  a 
far  cry,  not  simply  in  the  distance  that 
separate  the  two  places,  but  in  the 
temperament  and  character  in  human 
nature  each  place  calls  out  in  man.  In 
the  quieter  English  setting  human 
nature  somehow  gets  diversified,  the 
types  are  varied;  in  the  Yukon  Mr. 
Cody's  "Frontiersman"  is  like  other 
frontiersmen.  The  "stirring  adven- 
tures" are  the  stirring  adventures  of 
all  the  novelists  who  set  their  stories 
"packed  with  action"  there.  A  great 
many  readers  have  cultivated  a  liking 
for  fiction  of  this  sort,  and  Mr.  Cody's 
story  will  please  them.  The  motives  in 
human  nature  that  inspire  the  "Social 
Buccaneer,"  perhaps  are  not  funda- 
mentally more  different  than  those  of 
Mr.  Cody's  frontiersman.  The  author's 
motto,  so  his  publishers  inform  us,  has 
always  been  to  "get  there,"  and  the 
power  and  triumph  which  the  "getting 
there"  insures  does  not  very  profoundly 
separate  the  instincts  of  men  so  widely 
varying  in  internal  aspects  as  Mr. 
Cody's  and  Mr.  Isham's  heroes. 

A  new  life  of  Robert  Browning  is 
always  hailed  with  respect  and  expecta- 
tion. New  material  illuminating  the 
personality  and  development  of  genius 
is  always  a  welcome  guidance  to  the 
insight  of  his  admirers  upon  the  subject; 
but  in  Browning's  case  this  fact  added 
to  a  clearer  interpretation  of  rendering 
more  lucid  poetry  so  misunderstandable 
invests  this  new  biography  with  im- 
portance. This  volume  prepared  with 
such  care  and  assiduous  labor  over  a 
period  of  years  by  Prof.  Hall  Griffin,  and 
left  unfinished  at  his  death,  is  completed 
with  sympathy  and  insight  by  Mr. 
Minchin.  The  authors  have  woven 
into  a  gossipy,  interesting  narrative 
the  personal  details  of  the  poet's  life, 
his  family,  his  friends,  his  association, 
with  the  various  places  he  lived  and 
visited.     Into    this    is    worked    noticee 


BOOK  NOTES 


491 


and  studies,  expositions  and  outlines 
of  the  poet's  work,  showing  its  develop- 
ment and  gradual  recognition  by  the 
public.  This  is  a  very  readable  biog- 
raphy and  can  be  perused  as  a  supple- 
ment to  all  the  books  written  about 
Browning  and  his  work. 

Among  these  seven  books  of  verse 
three  at  least  stand  out  with  distinc- 
tion among  the  poetry  of  the  year.  Mr. 
Robinson  is  one  of  the  three  or  four 
foremost  American  poets,  while  in 
England  Mr.  Stephen  Phillips  holds  a 
like  position.  "The  Town  Down  the 
River"  is  full  of  that  ironic  philosophy, 
that  psychologic  protraiture  in  human 
nature,  of  which  he  is  master,  and  of 
an  art  full  of  reticence  and  haunting 
harmony.  Mr.  Phillips's  "Pietro  of 
Siena,"  while  not  as  notable  in  art  and 
substance  as  his  earlier  poetic  dramas, 
bears,  however,  the  stamp  of  genius 
which  won  him  the  reputation  of  weav- 
ing such  cunning  dramatic  verse  for  the 
action  of  his  characters.  Mr.  Schutze's 
"Judith"  is  worthy  of  a  place  among 
Mr.  Phillips's  best  poetic  dramas.  It  is 
based  on  the  apocryphal  story,  the  prin- 
cipal tragic  motive  is  the  irreconcilable 
conflict  between  a  noble  and  passionate 
woman's  fanatic  and  desperate  patriot- 
ism and  her  moral  nature  and  personal 
integrity.  The  conflict  of  Judith  is 
further  intensified  by  the  presentation 
of  Holofernes  as  a  great  man,  whose 
power  and  wisdom  yield  to  the  passion 
inspired  by  her  force  and  beauty.  The 
beauty  of  Mr.  Schutze's  blank  verse 
admirably  clothes  this  passionate  and 
absorbing  substance.  Mr.  Van  Rens- 
selaer's "  Poems  "  is  a  distinctive  volume. 
A  sober  but  penetrative  quality  im- 
bues her  lines  that  are  shaped  with  a 
subtle  command  of  rhythm.  In  the 
collected  poems,  comprising  "  The 
Golden-Gated  West  Songs  and  Poems," 
edited  by  W.  T.  Burney,  Simpson  is 
classed  with  Burns  and  Poe.     While  it 


is  too  much  to  claim  for  the  deceased 
poet,  it  does  not,  however,  prevent  us 
from  enjoying  verse  that  has  many 
sterling  and  compelling  qualities.  There 
is  much  of  the  same  quality  of  feeling 
and  melody  in  Mr.  Rexford's  "Pansies 
and  Rosemary"  that  we  discovered  in 
Mr.  Simpson's  verse.  Sentiments  that 
touch  the  common  heart  and  appeal  to 
minds  unconfused  by  the  symbolism 
of  life  and  the  mysteries.  Emily  Sar- 
gent Lewis  continues  the  same  note 
on  a  lowlier  key,  in  the  Little  "Singer 
and  other  Verses."  The  emotion  is  not 
so  full,  though  the  impulse  is  not  less 
genuine. 

Those  interesting  series,  published 
by  L.  C.  Page  &  Co.,  of  books  historical 
and  descriptive  of  the  peoples  and  coun- 
tries of  other  lands,  have  had  three 
new  titles  added  in  Blair  Jaekel's 
"The  Lands  of  the  Tamed  Turk,"  Will 
S.  Monroe's  "Bohernia  and  the  Zechs,'* 
and  Nevin  O.  Winter's  "Brazil  and  Her 
People  of  To-day."  Each  of  these 
authors  writes  with  authority  upon  his 
subject  and  adds  a  fund  of  reliable 
information  to  our  limited  knowledge 
of  phases  of  their  history  and  develop- 
ment. Mr.  Miltoun  has  given  us  many 
interesting  and  fascinating  books  of 
descriptive  travel,  but  none  is  so  laden 
with  the  richness  of  his  observations  and 
knowledge  as  the  "Royal  Palaces  and 
Parks  of  France,"  so  teeming  with  the 
long  and  brilliant  associations  of  French 
history  and  great  personages.  Another 
addition  to  the  "Art  Galleries  of 
Europe"  series  is  a  welcome  addition  in 
Florence  Jean  Ansell  and  Frank  Roy 
Fraprie's  "The  Art  of  the  Munich 
Galleries."  The  authors,  in  their  in- 
terpretation of  schools  and  artists,  in 
rendering  the  beauty  and  significance 
of  single  masterpieces  comprehensive 
to  the  readers,  have  achieved  a  service 
that  is  educational  as  well  as  pleasurable. 
Mr.    Sadakichi   Hartmann   writes   with 


492 


BOOK  NOTES 


full  knowledge  and  full  appreciation 
about  the  great  painter's  life  and  work, 
in  "The  Whistler  Book,"  which  con- 
tains fifty-seven  reproductions  of  Whis- 
tler's most  inaportant  pictures.  The 
paradox  of  the  man  is  brought  into 
relation  with  his  art  and  in  the  impres- 
sionism of  the  pictures  this  relationship 
unravels  a  personality  that  is  clear 
in  its  artistic  intentions.  Mr.  Hart- 
mann's  contribution  to  the  interpretation 
of  Whistler  as  man  and  artist  is  a  notable 
one.  On  the  subject  of  art  there  is  no 
clearer  and  more  suggested  writer  than 
Mr.  Coffin.  In  an  admirable  volume  he 
showed  us  "How  to  Study  Pictures," 
and  applying  the  same  concise  revealing 
qualities  to  the  "Story  of  Spanish 
Painting,"  he  draws  definitely  for  his 
readers  the  historical,  biographical,  criti- 
cal, and  appreciative  aspects  of  his  sub- 
ject. It  contains  all  that  one  should 
know  who  has  not  and  is  likely  not  to 
see  the  original  canvases  in  Spanish 
cathedrals  and  galleries,  A  subject 
so  full  of  public  interest  and  specula- 
tions as  the  Panama  Canal  justifies  any 
book  that  gives  an  account  of  the  coun- 
try, its  physical  features  and  natural 
resources,  with  a  thorough  history  of 
the  canal  project  from  the  earliest  times; 
Mr.  Forbes  Lindsay's  comprehensive 
book  fully  illustrated  from  recent  photo- 
graphs, and  including  five  maps,  seems 
the  most  valuable  account  yet  published 
on  that  narrow  country,  whose  con- 
structed canal  will  have  so  tremendous 
influence  upon  the  future  commerce  of 
the  world. 

It  is  superfluous  to  recommend  a 
Kate  Greenaway  book,  her  name  is  as- 
sured in  the  affections  of  childhood;  to 
her  "Under  the  Window,"  Mr.  Baum's 
"The  Emerald  City  of  Oz"  may  be 
added  as  the  work  of  one  who  too  has 
won  a  dear  hold  upon  the  imagination 
of  the  young.  "Kiddie  Land,"  by 
Margaret  G.  Hays,  and  "The  Magical 


Man  of  Mirth,"  by  Elbridge  H.  Sabin, 
though  by  authors  of  less  repute,  are  of 
delightful  interest  to  the  child  whose 
interests  are  compelled  by  the  pictures 
rather   than    the   text. 

Suggestions  concerning  the  ideals  and 
aims  of  books  are  always  worth  heeding 
when  they  are  made  by  so  efficient  and 
informed  a  mind  as  Mr.  Kuhns.  His 
"The  Love  of  Books  and  Reading"  is  a 
companion  volume  one  should  place  on 
one's  shelf  beside  old  Richard  Bury. 
The  "Chauncey  Giles  Year  Book"  is  a 
sort  of  latter  day  "Christian  Year," 
which  will  bring  spiritual  guidance  and 
fortitude  to  many  readers.  "A  Search 
after  Ultimate  Truth,"  by  Aaron  Martin 
Crane,  elaborates  the  essential  charac- 
teristics of  man,  and  the  mutual  rela- 
tions of  men  to  each  other  and  to  God. 
It  incontestably  and  triumphantly  proves 
that  man  is  immortal.  Two  little 
compilations  that  will  be  welcomed  by 
many  are  "Love,  Friendship,  and  Good 
Cheer,"  and  "Faith,  Hope,  and  Love," 
compiled  by  Grace  Browne  Strand.  Mrs. 
Burton  Chance's  "Mother  and  Daugh- 
ters, A  Book  of  Ideals  for  Girls,"  is  one 
that  ought  to  link  closer  parent  and 
child  during  those  years  when  the  con- 
sciousness of  maturity  in  the  girl  begins 
to  draw  her  existence  apart  from  the 
parent.  It  is  an  important  text  on  a 
vital  relationship.  The  "Psychic  Auto- 
biography" of  Amanda  T.  Jones  will  be, 
as  the  late  William  James  suggested, 
of  deep  interest  to  investigators  of 
psychic  phenomena.  Its  human  inter- 
est will  appeal  to  many  readers. 
"Under  the  Open  Sky"  is  a  year  with 
nature,  its  seasons,  birds,  flowers,  hills, 
and  streams.  The  author's  aim,  he 
declares,  "is  to  help  people  who  are 
feeling  in  themselves  the  quietening 
modern  longing  for  contact  with  and 
understanding  of  Nature  in  her  simpler 
manifestations." 


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